


Kiersey College Ficlet Collection

by sincerelyreidburke (poindextears)



Series: Kiersey College OC-Verse [13]
Category: Kiersey College (Webseries), Original Work
Genre: Context in chapter notes, Descriptions go by chapter, Drabble Collection, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Kiersey College, M/M, Non-Chronological, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 86,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poindextears/pseuds/sincerelyreidburke
Summary: This is a collection of miscellaneous drabble about my characters, the students of Kiersey College. These are posted originally on my Tumblr, whether they're from ask responses or because I just felt like writing something small. Although they aren't in chronological order, I'll make clear within the individual chapters the context within which they're taking place. The first chapter is a table of contents!Here is where you can learn more about these college OCs!
Relationships: Ben "Rhodey" Shaley & Remy Tremblay, Ben "Rhodey" Shaley/Cole Kolinsky, OMC & OMC, OMC/OFC, OMC/OMC, Reid Burke/Bri Cameron, Remy Tremblay & Kai Boudreaux, Sebastián "Nando" Hernandez/Quinn Cooper
Series: Kiersey College OC-Verse [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878397
Comments: 120
Kudos: 206
Collections: Kiersey College





	1. contents & chronology

**The basic premise of Kiersey College:** Sebastián "Nando" Hernandez, who can be treated as our main character, arrives at Kiersey College in New Hampshire in the fall of 2018. He's 2000 miles from his hometown in Arizona, and he's at Kiersey to play college hockey, study sociology, and hopefully build the confidence he lacked in high school. This ficlet collection— as well as [this entire series of works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878397)— gives you pieces of not only Nando's story, but the stories of the people he meets along the way as well.

**TABLE OF CONTENTS**

**(For easy navigation of this work! See below for chronological order.)**

[break a leg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58290766#workskin) | Freshman year. Nando's POV. Nando's new boyfriend, Quinn, walks him to the bus for a hockey road game departure.

[stage makeup](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58290880#workskin) | Freshman year. Nando's POV. Nando picks Quinn up from Kiersey Drama Club spring musical rehearsal, and discovers what stage makeup looks like.

[joann fabrics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58297189#workskin) | Junior-senior summer. Quinn's POV. Quinn is spending the summer with Nando's family in Arizona, and he has a heart-to-heart with Nando's younger sister.

[starbucks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58375156#workskin) | Junior-senior summer. Nando's POV. The same summer from above, but this time, Nando is trying to take Quinn to Starbucks in peace and runs into his ex while they're there. (You can learn more about Nando's ex in [the moving day fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25919380) and [the fic where they break up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687413).)

[minecraft paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58524322#workskin) | Sophomore year. Ben's POV. Ben does some soft bro pining for his best friend.

[moritz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58800616#workskin) | Sophomore year. Quinn's POV. Quinn, having recently auditioned for a professional touring theatre production, gets an important casting call while he's at lunch with Nando and company.

[human pillow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/59049649#workskin) | Freshman year. Quinn's POV. In the early morning, while they rest together in his dorm room, Quinn observes that his boyfriend is a snuggly boy.

[movie night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/59622223#workskin) | Freshman year. Nando's POV. "Netflix and chill" date night morphs into "Netflix and incredibly affectionate body positivity." This makes it sound NSFW, but it isn't, aside from some shirt-removing.

[2021](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60489370#workskin) | Junior year. Nando's POV. Quinn is home with Nando in Arizona for Christmas/winter break, and they're ringing in the New Year in each other's company for the first time.

[coming out: quinn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543685#workskin) | Before college. Quinn's POV. The first of a four-part coming out series I did for Pride Month. Quinn comes out to his friend Grace, an elderly lesbian he knows from Deaf community meetups at home in Michigan.

[coming out: nando](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543823#workskin) | Before college. Nando's POV. In the wake of grief from his papa's death, Nando comes out to his mama.

[coming out: ben](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543883#workskin) | Freshman year. Ben's POV. Ben is on one of his first dates with a new maybe-girlfriend, but he wants to come out to her before they become official.

[coming out: remy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543910#workskin) | After college. Remy's POV. Remy tries to explain to his parents why he hasn't 'settled down' yet, and winds up coming out to them over dinner.

[take a walk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/61656088#workskin) | After college. Nando's POV. Essentially a future fic/kid fic, in which you get a glimpse into Quinn and Nando's domestic, middle-aged life. It's Nando's little sister's wedding day (the same sister from "[joann fabrics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58297189#workskin)", and Nando walks her down the aisle.

[and your name?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/61713235#workskin) | Before college. Cole's POV. (Cole can be found in drama club fics like [this one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611920) and [this one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25559509/chapters/62023474).) A young, pre-gender transition Cole goes to Starbucks, because he wants to say his own name out loud.

[got hitched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/62060692#workskin) | After college. Nando's POV, but it shifts briefly to Ben's at the end. A concise tale of how Nando and Quinn find out that Ben got married. To Cole. By eloping. In Europe?

[rude awakening](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/62341849#workskin) | Junior year. Remy's POV. Some frat house Sunday afternoon antics. Remy is trying to take a nap, but he gets woken up by Quinn and Nando bickering like an old married couple downstairs in the kitchen.

[electric feel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/62713705#workskin) | Junior-senior summer. Ben & Cole's alternating POVs. Ben has no one around to go out with on his 21st birthday.... except one Cole Kolinsky. There are many problems with going out clubbing on a summer night with the guy you've been pining over.

[bisexual gang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/63101965#workskin) | After college. Cole's POV. Cole posts on Instagram about his relationship with Ben, and Reid— a dear, queer friend from college— notices, and hypes him up accordingly.

[beautiful stranger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/63263107#workskin) | Freshman year. Ben's POV. The night Ben and Cole actually meet, upon the occasion of an open mic session at a campus café.

[i've been waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/63268021#workskin) | After college. Ben's POV. Midnight domestic sweetness with Ben and Cole. That's it; that's the ficlet.

[sappy prompt: nando & ben](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65788144) | Sophomore year. Nando's POV. One of several fills on a list of wholesome/sappy prompts, in which Nando and Ben have some bro time.

[sappy prompt: remy & kai](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65806432#workskin) | Sophomore year. Remy's POV. Another prompt fill. Remy is stressed about schoolwork, and Kai, his friend from the history program, is very good for him.

[sappy prompt: cole & claire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65853061) | Cole's freshman year, or a year before the main gang arrives. Claire's POV. Claire (from the drama club) has a birthday, and Cole— who she's dating at the time— writes her a song.

[sappy prompt: quinn & nando](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65906788#workskin) | Junior year. Quinn's POV. Snuggle times with Quinn and Nando. That's it; that's the ficlet.

[study break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/67501900#workskin) | Freshman year. Quinn's POV. It's December exam season, and Quinn takes a break from his studying.

[sappy prompt: ben & cole i](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/67970335#workskin) | After college. Cole & Ben's alternating POVs. It's getting to be the dark part of winter, and Cole's mental health isn't in a good place.

[sappy prompt: reid & bri](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/68071705#workskin) | After college (for Reid and Bri, that is). Reid's POV. Reid just wants to give his girlfriend, Bri, the great birthday she deserves.

[winter break plans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/68885982#workskin) | Junior year. Quinn's POV. Quinn's theatre professor asks him if he has any plans for winter break. He technically does... but there's a lot to unpack there.

[ace gang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/69549855#workskin) | Freshman year. Remy’s POV. Remy runs into a history department friend, Kai, in the library, and winds up having a very wholesome conversation.

[morning dish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/69746328#workskin) | Freshman year. Ben’s POV. Set the morning after Nando meets Quinn, in which Ben gets to see Nando’s soft, smitten state firsthand.

[midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/69748467#workskin) | After college. Bri’s POV. A quick one, in which Reid and Bri ring in the New Year in New York City.

**CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF THESE FICLETS**

**I. Before College**

[and your name?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/61713235#workskin)

[coming out: quinn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543685#workskin)

[coming out: nando](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543823#workskin)

[sappy prompt: cole & claire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65853061)

**II. College**

[morning dish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/69746328#workskin)

[ace gang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/69549855#workskin)

[coming out: ben](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543883#workskin)

[study break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/67501900#workskin)

[break a leg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58290766#workskin)

[movie night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/59622223#workskin)

[beautiful stranger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/63263107#workskin)

[stage makeup](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58290880#workskin)

[human pillow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/59049649#workskin)

[sappy prompt: remy & kai](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65806432#workskin)

[moritz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58800616#workskin)

[sappy prompt: nando & ben](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65788144#workskin)

[minecraft paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58524322#workskin)

[sappy prompt: reid & bri](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/68071705#workskin)

[sappy prompt: quinn & nando](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/65906788#workskin)

[rude awakening](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/62341849#workskin)

[winter break plans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/68885982#workskin)

[2021](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60489370#workskin)

[starbucks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58375156#workskin)

[joann fabrics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/58297189#workskin)

[electric feel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/62713705#workskin)

**III. After College**

[midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/69748467#workskin)

[coming out: remy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/60543910#workskin)

[bisexual gang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/63101965#workskin)

[i've been waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/63268021#workskin)

[sappy prompt: ben & cole i](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/67970335#workskin)

[got hitched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/62060692#workskin)

[take a walk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/61656088#workskin)


	2. break a leg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first up! In which Quinn walks Nando to the bus before a roadie.  
> [Original ask prompt: Does Quinn ever accidentally say "break a leg" to Nando before a game?](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/617876309653258240/im-actually-listening-to-quinns-playlist-right)

_freshman year_ | _november_

It’s snowing out, and Quinn walks Nando to the bus at the rink.

He doesn’t _need_ to do that, but Nando is grateful for it all the same. Their Friday classes are both over, and they’ve been holed up in Quinn’s room since they brought lunch back there two hours ago, but bus time has arrived, and Nando has to go. So they step outside. Quinn takes his scarf and wraps it around Nando’s neck ( _for warmth_ , he says, as he does it; _it’s probably even snowier up in Vermont_ ), and he wraps one gloved hand around his elbow, and they walk across campus like they’re having an old-fashioned stroll.

It’s the last roadie of the semester. Four hours up to UVM, a game tonight and a game the next day, and another four back down Sunday morning. Nando is hyped for the games, but it’s the second to last weekend on campus before Christmas break, and next weekend is prep for finals, and then after that… he won’t see Quinn for a month.

Which is not _that_ long of a time, especially not because they’ve already discussed a plan for FaceTiming and doing a few virtual movie dates, but he is _seriously_ going to miss being able to hug and kiss him.

Nando carries his overnight bag on his arm that doesn’t have Quinn on it. As they’re walking, he dodges particularly big piles of slush, and snowflakes land on his eyelashes and in his hair.

Snow is _beautiful_. He just wishes it didn’t also mean it has to be cold.

Quinn is a good way to warm up, though.

“Now, how will this work?” Quinn is asking him, as they go. “With the bus, and the snow? Could your game get delayed?”

Nando really has no idea, so he shrugs. “I guess it could, but… at least according to the group chat, it’s not snowing as badly up there, because the storm is more in the south. So.” He looks down at him— Quinn is pint-sized and adorable, gazing up at the overcast clouds with a little worry in his blue eyes. “Don’t worry about me, baby,” he tells him, jostling his arm a little. “They won’t drive us if it’s dangerous.”

“Well, I sure hope so.” Quinn takes a deep breath, then pauses, looking up at him as they walk along. “I might worry about you a little.”

Nando smiles. He can’t help but smile at him, skin as fair as snow with just a little of his hair sticking out from under his thick knit cap. _I made it myself_ , Quinn said, when he broke it out for the season, two weeks ago. _I can make you one, if you’d like!_

“Well, I’ll text you,” he promises. “To keep you updated.”

Quinn smiles and nods, like this is satisfactory for his worrying. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Of course, baby.” Nando leans to peck him on the cheek, and Quinn’s smile widens. He’s a little rosy, maybe from the cold or maybe just because.

The rest of the walk to the hockey arena is a winter wonderland. When they reach the rink itself, the bus is parked outside, in the same spot it always is, loading up on Friday afternoons or bright and early Saturday mornings, dropping off at unholy hours when the whole team is asleep. The captain, Parker, is standing with Coach Allard at the entrance, in his team jacket, helping load bags into the underneath part.

Parker waves. “Hey, Nando!” he calls, and then adds, “Hi, Quinn.”

Quinn waves back at Parker. Nando can’t wave, because both his hands are occupied, so he shouts across the snowing parking lot. “Hi, Park!”

“Ah,” Quinn murmurs, with a little regret in his voice. “I suppose this is where I leave you?”

Nando looks down at him. On the one hand, hockey, but on the other, he doesn’t want to go. “I guess so,” he replies, then turns to him and puts down his bag for a second, taking a little breath that turns into a cloud when he lets it out. He takes both of Quinn’s hands and squeezes them. “See you when I get home Sunday?”

Quinn nods. “I’ll see you then,” he replies, and then rises on his tiptoes, hooking an arm around his neck. It’s a snowy kiss, and a sweet one too. Nando moves his hands to his waist and smiles against his mouth.

They’ve been dating since their first kiss three weeks ago. Nando is certain that he could do this for a long, long time.

“Have a safe trip,” Quinn tells him, when they pull apart, “and please keep me updated about the weather, okay?”

“Yes.” Nando nods. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you.”

“Thank you.”

“And you have a good night, okay?” He squeezes at his waist, gently. “Have fun with Maggie.”

“Thank you.” Quinn smiles. He’s going to some theatre party tonight, with his best friend from the drama club. “I’ll try to keep her under control.”

Nando laughs. He’s met Maggie twice, and she seems like she might need said controlling in a party environment. “You’re a good friend.”

“ _Nannyyyyyy_!” Nando knows his best friend's voice before he even turns; with a quick look for confirmation, he’s coming with his bag from the dorm. He and Quinn must have only been a little in front of Ben on their way over. “I’ll fine you, bro! No PDA in the parking lot!”

Nando laughs. Parker is literally standing right there, and he hasn’t yet been fined, but since he and Quinn started dating, Ben has not missed a beat with fine opportunities. “Fuck off, Rho,” he chirps, then, as Ben approaches, looks back down at Quinn. “Okay,” he says, with an exhale; he’s hesitant to actually go. “I’ll see you?”

Quinn smiles. Snow-covered, he’s the cutest thing Nando has seen. “You’ll see me,” he says, then kisses him lightly, one more time. “And break a leg. In your game.”

Nando stares at him for a second, replays that last bit in his head, and tries to figure out whether he should laugh. Quinn looks like he considers what he just said to be completely normal. “Uh.” He pauses. “What did you just say?”

“Break a leg?” Quinn furrows his brow. “It… means good luck?”

“Oh, baby,” Nando laughs, and he has never liked him more. “I know. I just— that was funny. I’ve never been wished good luck in theatre terms before.”

“Is that okay?” Quinn asks. “I didn’t—”

“Of course it’s okay,” Nando replies, lest he doubt himself for being the cutest person on Earth, and kisses both his cheeks. “It’s cute.”

“Oh.” Quinn smiles again, a little relieved-looking. “Okay.”

“Okay, Quinnathan, I’m stealing your man.” On his way by, Ben grabs Nando by the back of his jacket. Nando stumbles, laughs, and squeezes Quinn around the waist one last time before he’s forced to let go. “If you don’t mind, of course,” Ben adds, with a wink in Quinn’s direction.

“Hi, Ben,” Quinn says, grinning just a little, and rolling his eyes at the same time. “And bye, Ben.”

“Bye, baby!” Nando calls, picking up his bag and blowing him a kiss. “I’ll miss you!”

Quinn folds his arms, cocks his head, and smiles. He’s too adorable for words. “I’ll miss you, too,” he says. “Have a safe trip.”

Nando wrestles himself out of Ben’s clutches, turns around all the way, and walks side-by-side with him as they approach the bus. “Dude,” Ben says. “Major fine.”

“I’ll pay it, then.” Nando can’t stop smiling.

“Hey, guys.” At the bus door, Parker helps them with their bags. He, too, has a bunch of snow in his blond hair. His hat of choice is one of his boyfriend's stocking caps. “Happy gameday.”

“Thanks!” Ben bounds onto the bus, taking the stairs two at a time, and hollers some kind of greeting to get everyone on there rowdy.

Nando allows himself one look over his shoulder. Quinn is in the parking-lot, right where he left him, watching.

He waves one more time, and Quinn waves back.

Nando never stood a chance.


	3. stage makeup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Nando picks up Quinn from musical rehearsal.  
> [Original ask prompt: Could you please entertain me with how Nando would react to seeing Quinn in stage makeup?](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/616510893833027584/alright-so-could-you-please-entertain-me-with-how)

_freshman year_ | _march_

If there’s one thing Nando has learned after several months of dating a theatre boy, it’s this: the drama club does not fuck around.

Like, as in, Quinn was already in rehearsal when he woke  _ up _ this morning and now Nando’s game for the day— AKA his sole Saturday obligation— is finished and they’re  _ still there _ . It was a matty game, but  _ still _ . Quinn has literally been in the auditorium for, like, eight hours.

Nando knows why, though. Six days from now is opening night for the show. And today, as Quinn explained to him several times, is ‘load-in followed by a double run’, which is apparently drama club code for We Are Going To Be Here Literally All Day.

He understands, though. He knows. They’re busy. They have a whole musical to put on next weekend, and the weekend after that too. And Quinn himself is  _ super _ busy, because, well, he’s the big cheese! He’s the lead. He’s putting the Evan Hansen in  _ Dear Evan Hansen. _

Nando is a  _ ridiculously _ proud boyfriend.

Also, he cannot  _ wait _ to finally see this show next weekend.

All that stands between him and that is what today signals the start of: tech week. Quinn has had some things to say about it. He’ll probably have more things to say about it. Nando wonders if he’s going to be nervous this week.

He’ll help him if he is; he’ll be here for him.. He’s going to blow this show out of the water. Nando knows it.

They win the game 6-1. He leaves the rink to an outdoor temperature which, miraculously, is something besides absolutely freezing. The sun hasn’t set or anything yet, but it’s getting later in the day, and it’s overcast and sort of gross out. “Hey,” Ben says, bumping against him as they walk. “Where are you headed right now?”

Nando glances at his phone. It’s 4:45.  _ Theoretically _ , Quinn is supposed to be done at 5:00. But Nando also knows by now that the Kiersey drama club is notorious for breaking their rehearsal end-time promises.

“That’s… a good question,” he replies, looking up at Ben. “Where are  _ you _ going?”

Ben shrugs. “I might hit the Beech, if Rem’s up for it.”

Nando nods. “Sweet.”

Ben tucks a loose strand of sweaty hair up into his bun, watching expectantly like he’s waiting for Nando’s answer. But he seems to read his mind, because a second later, he asks, “Is Q still in rehearsal?”

“I think so.” Nando grins a little. “They have him under lock and key.”

Ben smiles fully, and jostles his shoulder. “Duuude,” he says. “You must feel deprived.”

Nando knows he’s being chirped, but Ben never misses an opportunity to chirp him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “I do miss him,” he says. “But I’m so excited to see this show.”

“Oh, he’ll kick ass.” Ben pauses. “I can’t imagine that guy doing  _ anything _ at less than a hundred and twenty percent.”

“You’re right.” Nando’s insides are mush. He wants to see Quinn. They should watch a movie tonight. Or something. As long as he can hold him. “Are you gonna come see it?”

“Yeah,” Ben replies. “We can do student BOGO night.” He winks. “I’ll be your date to make him jealous.”

Nando laughs at the gray sky. “Yeah, okay.”

From behind them come rapid footfalls, and then Remy appears at Ben’s other side, half out of breath with hair still sort of wet from the showers. “You guys suck,” he announces. “You left me in the dust.”

“Dude, I thought you were with Marc,” Ben says.

“I  _ was _ .” Remy pauses and looks over his shoulder. Nando glances behind them, too— Jordy and Sam are a few yards back. “But I meant to catch up with you. Where are you going?”

Nando is hungry, and he has an idea. “I think,” he says, “I’m gonna go get food and then intercept Quinn on his way out of rehearsal.”

Ben flicks his wrist and makes a whip-cracking noise. Nando shoves him, and they laugh together.

“Okay, well, you have fun with that, lover boy,” Remy replies. He looks to Ben. “Beech?”

Ben nods affirmatively. “Beech.”

They part ways at the corner; the rest of the guys head for Beech Street and the hockey house, and Nando makes a beeline for the Bluegrass Café. He likes this, the balance in his social life— his friends chirp him to no end, but there’s always plenty of friend time  _ and _ boyfriend time. He loves the team, and he loves Quinn too.

Of course, he hasn’t, uh.  _ Said _ that yet. He wants to let Quinn say it first, so he doesn’t rush or pressure him.

He walks across campus to Bluegrass, where he picks up a to-go order— Swiss and rye grilled cheese, with a serving of fries, a cookie, and a hot tea with plenty of honey. He’s sort of hungry, too, but Quinn never finishes his fries. And plus, there are snacks back in Quinn’s room.

From the café to Beckett, the performing arts building, it’s a five-minute walk. The Nando of fall semester would be bitching about the wind chill, but today it’s really not so bad. The scarf Quinn knit him for Christmas has proved to come in very handy.

He carries the paper bag of food in one hand and the tea in the other. When he gets to the auditorium lobby, there isn’t a theatre kid in sight— which means they’re all still inside— but the good news is that he can’t hear any music in there, which means they’re doing notes.

And yeah. He knows theatre terms now. Like ‘doing notes’.

He really, really loves his life.

He sits on his standard bench, where more than once this musical season he’s sat to wait for Quinn after a rehearsal. When it gets to be 5:03 and there’s no sign of anyone leaving, he digs out his phone, puts the tea down on the arm of the bench, and looks through his Instagram to pass the time. Parker, their captain, posted a picture five minutes ago, of himself with David and Ville, taken after the game today. They’re all in their jerseys, just off the ice. It’s really wholesome. His caption is  _ road to playoffs!!!!! _

Nando is going to miss the seniors so much.

There isn’t much else in his feed, which is kind of boring, but he’s too preoccupied trying to wait for a sign of life from the backstage door that it doesn’t really make a difference. Finally, at 5:14— which really is not that late— a small group comes out of the stage door, chattering away. Among them is Quinn’s friend, Maggie, who Nando is at least ninety percent sure is playing his friend in the show. She spots him and waves. “Hey, Sebastián!”

“Hi!” He smiles. If there are people coming, Quinn can’t be far behind. “How did it go?”

Maggie grins back. She was one of the first drama club kids to be nice to him despite his jock-ery, and for that he’ll always be grateful. “It was fun!” she says. “Quinn’s coming. He was just talking to the director.”

“Sweet.” Nando has sort of been waiting all day for this. He feels the takeout bag, and, thank God, it’s still warm. He waves as Maggie leaves. “Have a good night!”

“See ya later!”

More cast and crew people start to filter out the stage door after Maggie and her group. They all go in different directions, some talking, some singing, some arguing. Some acknowledge him, and others don’t. He knows it’s sort of a scandal that their prodigal freshman is dating a gross hockey player.

He’s getting just slightly restless when, finally, a strawberry-haired cutie emerges from the door he’s been watching. Quinn is in a white cotton scarf and looking at his phone, and Nando grins a little, leans back on the bench, and plays casual while he waits for him to look up.

A few steps out of the door, he does, and Nando watches a smile cross his face as they meet eyes across the lobby. “Oh,” Quinn laughs. “I just texted you.”

Nando grins. “Hey, baby,” he hums, and then stands to go greet him. His phone buzzes in his pocket, which must be the text.

He meets him halfway across the lobby and wraps him in a squishy hug. Quinn is so small in his arms that he can rest his chin right on top of his head, and he gives him a good squeeze.

“Oh—” Quinn’s voice is muffled in his team jacket. “Be careful.”

“Careful of what?” Nando asks, pulling back to meet his eyes— but right as Quinn responds, he sees it.

“I’m wearing makeup,” Quinn says, and— and  _ yeah _ . He is.

It’s subtle, Nando knows this much. And he’ll be the first to admit he knows absolutely nothing about makeup, let alone  _ stage _ makeup, but— but. Quinn is definitely wearing it. There’s some kind of powder, and he’s pretty sure there’s also blush, and eyeliner, and— mascara? Or do his eyelashes just look like that? Nando has no idea, but—

— but he looks—  _ beautiful. _

He gapes down at him for what must be a slightly abnormal amount of time without saying anything, because Quinn arches an eyebrow, a question in his eyes.  _ God _ , he has pretty eyes. They’re blue-green, entire oceans, and Nando could lose himself in them, and how did he ever get so  _ lucky _ ?

“ _ Wow _ ,” he says finally, and adds, “You look—”

“I know, I know,” Quinn replies, waving a hand in the air. “It’s… a feat, but it’s just part of the process. It was a full dress today, so—”

“Wait, no,” Nando amends, shaking his head. “I meant— that wasn’t a bad ‘wow’. I— you look—” Nando is too gay to function, apparently. “ _ Pretty _ , baby. You look pretty.”

A smile quirks on Quinn’s lips, and Nando really wants to kiss him all of a sudden. “Oh?” he replies. “I didn’t realize you’d enjoy this look.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Nando laughs, cupping his face in his hands. “C’mere.” He kisses him gently, and Quinn laughs a little against his mouth.

“Hi,” Quinn mumbles.

“Hi.” He runs a thumb over his cheekbone. He’s definitely wearing blush, actually. “I missed you today. How’d it go?”

Quinn lets off a long breath, closing his eyes; he’s still smiling a little. “It went very well,” he starts, “but it was a long day.”

Nando pulls back a little, takes him by the hand, and starts to lead him to the bench. “I brought you dinner,” he says, gesturing to the bag and the tea. “And something for your throat.”

Quinn makes a gentle noise of either exhaustion or gratitude, and he squeezes his hand. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

Nando kisses his cheek. “I wanted to,” he replies, then hands him the tea. “I can carry the food. Where are we going? You need to make any stops?”

“No,” Quinn says, leaning against him as he lifts the cup to his lips. “Next stop, my room.”

“ _ Nice _ .” This is exactly what he was hoping he’d say. Nando watches him take the drink, then exhale deeply, like it’s essential oils or something. He tries not to let his eagerness show on his face.

“This is perfect,” Quinn says, of the tea. “I’m serious, Sebastián; thank you.”

“Of course, baby.” Nando is still sort of lost in the sight of his made-up face. It’s not so different from regular Quinn— maybe it’s just the whole theatre thing, the knowledge that this is how he’ll look next weekend, the pride in what his boyfriend is doing. But also, his eyeliner. Who knew he could rock eyeliner?

“You’re staring,” Quinn laughs.

“You’re cute!” Nando whines, and wraps an arm around him to kiss him again. Quinn squeezes at his forearm, and Nando keeps it sweet but also not obnoxious for a public place. They have this down to a science.

“C’mon,” Quinn says, once he releases him, and holds out his free hand. Nando takes it and follows him; he leads him towards the door that will lead them toward the dorm. “Before whatever’s in that bag gets cold.”

Nando falls into step next to him. “Seriously, how did it go?” he asks. “Tell me about your day.”

Quinn squeezes at his hand again, and when he looks up to meet his eyes, there’s something of a twinkle in his gaze. Nando just about swoons on his feet. “Come back to my room,” he replies, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Nando is more than happy to comply.

He’s kind of pretty sure that he’d follow this boy anywhere.


	4. joann fabrics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Quinn is in Arizona for the summer, and he takes Nando's sister on a costuming mission.  
> There's no original prompt for this one, because it was just a random idea, but I can point you to [this post from my Tumblr](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/617698594573647872/alright-ill-bite-whats-going-on-in-arizona-oo) if you're curious about why Quinn is spending the summer between junior and senior year in Arizona.

_junior-senior summer | june_

Quinn has a special relationship with Joann Fabrics.

For him, being let loose in one is sort of like being a chicken nugget fiend of a young child and finding out your parent is going to stop and get you a Happy Meal on the way home from school. It evokes borderline euphoria in his subconscious, a youthful eagerness that he’s quite sure he’ll never shake. The thing is that those places are just… _boundless_ potential, everything crafty that he loves all under one roof. He could quite literally lose an entire day just walking around the store, without buying anything at all.

So… you can imagine his excitement when, on the third day of production on _The Wizard of Oz_ , the director of the Tempe Community Children’s Theatre hands him an envelope of cash. “Here’s half of your costume budget,” she tells him. “Let me know when you want the other half. There’s a Joann’s ten minutes away from here, if that’s helpful for you to know.”

“Oh, my goodness!” Quinn looks into the envelope— there’s _plenty_ here to accomplish what he wants with it; he’s used to costuming on the Grand Rapids Summer Players budget, which, if you must know, stretched him _very_ thin most seasons. “Thank you so much, Erica. That is _immensely_ helpful for me to know. Is it okay if I go tomorrow?”

Erica is tall, tan, middle-aged, and constantly wearing a shawl as part of her outfit. A lot of people on the tech team are scared of her, but Quinn isn’t in the slightest. “You can go whenever your heart desires,” she replies, with a smile. “Keep me updated with what you’re putting together.”

“Thank you.” Quinn nods his head a little, clasping the envelope behind his back with both hands. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She waves. “See you, Quinn.”

That’s the key with directors. You have to kiss up a little, and then you’re on their good side, and life is easy.

Rosa and Gabriella are both waiting for him by the bench outside the auditorium. The program operates out of Tempe’s high school, whose theatre is better than the one back in Michigan but nothing _near_ Kiersey's Beckett Center.

“Ready?” he asks the two girls. They jump off the bench in near unison.

“Ready!” Gabriella affirms, and Rosa just nods.

They’re identical twins, but it’s not hard to tell them apart. Gabriella’s hair is always braided, and Rosa wears glasses. Not to mention their personalities are entirely different. They each look _so much_ like Sebastián, and their mama, too. Quinn has been in Arizona for three weeks, almost four, but the resemblance still strikes him every time he looks at them.

Quinn picks up the canvas bag that holds the girls’ stuff; right now, it’s not much, except Gabriella’s ballet shoes and some snacks, but closer to the actual production, they’ll be bringing more back and forth.

Gabriella skips over the linoleum floor, landing only on the blue parts in its multicolored pattern, like the rest of it is lava. “Good news, Rosa,” he says, as they start for the door. Rosa looks up at him, sticking close by his leg. He tells her, “We get to go to Joann’s tomorrow,” and her face lights up.

“Who’s Joann?” Gabriella asks.

“It’s a _store_ , dummy,” Rosa replies. “You know, with arts and crafts?”

She leaps to a new blue square. “Like pom-poms?”

Rosa nods. “And sequins.”

“Why do you need to go there?”

“To buy supplies to make the costumes,” Quinn tells her. She wobbles on one foot as she hunts for another blue patch. “So you’ll look pretty onstage!”

“Ooh!” This seems to pique Gabriella’s interest. “Can you buy me a crown?”

“You’re a _Munchkin_ ,” Rosa says. “Munchkins don’t wear crowns.”

“Well, maybe I’m a Munchkin princess!”

“Those don’t exist.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nuh- _uh_.”

“Quinn?” Gabriella stops at the double glass doors to look back at him. “Do Munchkin princesses exist?”

They each survey him intensely, and Quinn, by principle, is scared of absolutely no one, but being selected as the judge for their debate is intimidating. “I… am not sure,” he settles for, “but maybe we can do some research in the real _Wizard of Oz_ book and find out.”

“Yay!” Gabriella cries, and Rosa doesn’t look disappointed— Quinn knows she’s a book fan, so this seems to satisfy her, too.

It’s the little things.

The next morning, although they haven’t yet figured out if Munchkin princesses exists, Quinn is dialed in and on a mission. He has a rather lengthy shopping list for the Joann run, and he packs some of his own money, too, into the side of his bag, just in case something in there strikes his fancy. Which… it definitely will. He’s incapable of going in, even for a costume-related trip, without emerging with something for himself.

“For the road, _mi amor_ ,” says Sebastián, pressing a travel mug with a teabag in it into his hands. “I’ll finish the cleanup.”

Quinn glances beyond him, to the small stack of dishes next to the sink, and winces a little. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I can stay another few minutes.”

“No, no— go; I don’t want you to be late.” They’ve handled breakfast, as they do most mornings, for themselves and the girls; Mrs. Hernandez is working a weirdly timed shift at the hospital. Sebastián has work today, too, at his tio’s restaurant, but it’s not until later; he’s still in his sweats. “I don’t mind,” he adds.

Quinn smiles up at him. He still has some curly bedhead, and the facial hair he shaved after his playoffs in the spring is coming in again. Mornings with him in his childhood home are domestic in a way Quinn has never known. “Thank you,” he says, wrapping both hands around the tea. “And breakfast was delicious.”

Sebastián beams. “Of course, baby.” He takes him by the shoulders for a quick kiss, and it’s no more than three seconds long, but right then, from out of nowhere, the ten-year-old relationship police descend upon them.

“Sebastián, _yuck_ !” Gabriella is walking across the kitchen, fresh from the _go ahead and put on your shoes, then we’ll go to rehearsal_ mission that Quinn sent her on two minutes ago. “No kissing in the kitchen.”

Sebastián rolls his eyes at his sister, still grinning lopsidedly. “Who said _that’s_ a rule?”

“I did.” Gabriella huffs, then grabs Quinn’s shirt on the way by. “C’mon, Quinn, we’re going.”

Quinn laughs, as she pulls him toward the front door, and Sebastián raises his eyebrows. “Well, you sure told me, huh,” he says. Rosa, fresh from upstairs, crosses the kitchen without fanfare, and joins them at the door.

“He doesn’t have time for you; you’re gross,” Gabriella says to Sebastián, like _so there_ , and Quinn makes eye contact with him as he’s being wrangled to the door. Sebastián raises his eyebrows and mouths, _She really showed me_.

Quinn grabs the keys off the hook by the door, still laughing, and waves to him. “I’ll see you later, honey.”

“Bye!” he calls, leaning against the counter. “Have fun at Joann’s!”

Quinn has been thinking about this since yesterday, and yet the reminder makes him smile like he’s remembering it for the first time. “Oh, I will!”

Sebastián winks at him, which is just cause to smile further.

“My brother is gross,” Gabriella tells him, as they walk down the front path towards the car. “He’ll give you cooties.”

 _If that’s the case, it’s far too late._ “I suppose so,” he replies. “But it’s a good thing he’s sweet, too.”

Gabriella makes a gagging noise. “Love is _yucky_ ,” she says, and Quinn laughs.

Getting out of the house in the morning has been a feat since he got here. The twins are chaotic— well, Gabriella is chaotic; Rosa just adds another person into the mix— and it was a little easier when they were sending them off to school, but now that Quinn is bringing them to the theatre, he’s directly _involved_ in the child-wrangling. Mrs. Hernandez is sometimes working and sometimes not in the mornings, but he and Sebastián have taken it upon themselves to do the morning routine so they can give her a break.

It… feels like home. Quinn could get very, very used to this.

At the high school, he drops Gabriella off with the other kids for stage rehearsal, and then rejoins Rosa in the lobby, where she’s waiting dutifully. “Are you ready?” he asks her, and she nods, with a big smile he’s not sure he’s ever seen from her.

“Let’s go to Joann’s,” she declares, and he smiles.

“Indeed,” he replies, and they start back for the car together. “Let’s go.”

He wonders, as they set off in the car, if Rosa will be shy. Although the past few days with starting out _Oz_ have placed them in one-on-one contact, because Rosa is his wardrobe assistant for the summer, those are the first times he’s been alone with her, without her much more talkative sister or Sebastián or Mrs. Hernandez in the mix somewhere. He knows that Rosa is shy; he’s witnessed as much, since he arrived here. He’d love to get to know her.

But he doesn’t want to push her, either, and especially doesn’t want to do the grown-up thing (goodness, he’s a grown-up) where you accidentally make a kid uncomfortable because you ask too many questions. So as he listens to his phone navigate him in the direction of the store, he keeps mostly quiet, with the radio on low volume.

Then, about three minutes into their drive, her small voice breaks the silence. “My mama says you’re staying with us this summer because my brother loves you.” As he looks over to her, she pauses. Her eyes are on him, behind her purple-rimmed glasses. “Is that true?”

“Well… yes, that’s true,” he replies, because it’s the most watered-down version of the truth. You can’t really tell a ten-year-old that your grandparents kicked you out directly _because_ you love said ten-year-old’s brother. And boys. As a concept. “I do love your brother very much,” he adds. “And I’m very grateful to be here with you this summer.”

Both these things are true. If it weren’t for Sebastián, he has no idea where he’d be staying right now. He has nowhere to go.

It was a big and awful truth when he first faced it. But that was months ago, and he’s all right now. There are people who love him, who support him— even if they’re not blood family.

Rosa nods, like she’s a lawyer, and he’s on the witness stand. _In three hundred feet, continue onto East Broadway Road_ , says the GPS. She folds her arms, but not in a standoffish way, and asks, “Why didn’t your mama and papa want you to come home and see them?”

 _Oh._ This one is harder to dodge. Quinn takes a second, smoothing the front of his hair, before he replies, “Well… I don’t see much of my parents, actually.”

“Are they dead?”

It’s so quick, it almost gives him whiplash. He forgets that Rosa and Gabriella lost a parent; they’re well familiar with death. “No,” he says, gently. “They just aren’t around.”

“Oh.” Rosa hangs her head. “Sorry.”

“Oh, goodness,” he says. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t hurt my feelings or anything, I promise.”

“Okay.” At least she takes this at face value, and Quinn can relax again. _In 2.3 miles, turn left onto South Dobson Road._ He knows she’s still looking at him, and for some reason, he can tell she’s going to ask him another question before it comes. “Is it true you can’t hear without your headphones?”

Quinn smiles a little. He taps the hearing aid on her side and nods. “They aren’t headphones,” he says, “but yes, that’s true.”

She cranes her neck to look over the console. “Are they magic?”

He laughs. “In a way, I suppose. They let me do some things, but I’m just as much myself without them.”

“What kind of things?”

“Like listening to music.” He pauses. “And speaking English. It’s like your glasses help you see; these help me hear.”

She touches her purple frames again. “But when you did your play last summer,” she says, “some of the actors were deaf like you, right?”

“Right!” He smiles fondly. Tour seems like a lifetime ago, but he’s still in touch with some of the friends he made.

“So you used sign language,” Rosa says. “Instead of singing.”

“Combined with singing,” he replies. “It was really lovely.”

She frowns a little. “How come we couldn’t go see it?”

 _Oop_. Gabriella has asked him this same question before. Sebastián wasn’t even sure about letting Mrs. Hernandez see the show, let alone his then-nine-year-old sisters. “Um… because it’s— well, it’s for grown-ups.”

Rosa huffs, but she doesn’t sound mad at _him_. Just frustrated. “That’s what Mama said.”

He’s glad she doesn’t stretch that topic any further, because he would have no idea how to explain _Spring Awakening_ to a ten-year-old. Instead, she shifts gears. “Next time you do one, can it be for kids?”

He smiles at her. “I’ll be sure of it.”

For now, this ends Rosa’s interrogation, but she doesn’t get shy again. It’s pleasant, actually, to hear her say more than a few words at a time— from then to when they pull in at Joann, she talks about _Oz_ , and doesn’t go quiet until they walk up to the automatic doors. Quinn grabs a carriage, because they’re definitely going to need one, and pulls the list out of his pocket.

The doors slide open, and he takes a long breath in.

It’s time.

“ _Wow_ ,” Rosa says, from next to him, as she takes in the sight of the store in all its fabric and craft glory. “We could make, like, a million costumes in here!”

“It’s the greatest place.” Quinn might be crying a little. He leans down to her, list in-hand. “Are you ready to be my little helper?”

She actually jumps up-and-down at this. “Yeah!” she says, and it’s the most energy he’s ever seen out of her. “What should I do first?”

He brandishes the list. “Follow me.”

*

It’s an absolutely religious experience.

It takes two hours, and not a second if it is wasted time. Rosa is the greatest help, always asking what’s next for her to do, and he moves through the aisles on a mission. He is in his glory, and he regrets absolutely nothing.

They stock up on the basics— tulle, yarn, and cotton, plus sequins and gingham, a few different rolls of ribbon, buttons and thread. They fill the entire cart. Each moment spent inside the store is like free serotonin to last Quinn for months.

Checking out at half of the cash in the envelope, he marks it down as an _extremely_ successful trip. “Great job!” he says to Rosa, as they walk back into the parking lot. It’s baking-hot outside, but the heat is dry, and it’s tolerable for now. “We got everything on our list.”

Rosa is smiling, ear to ear, and has been for most of the past two hours. “Wow,” she says. “I _love_ that place.”

“We’ll definitely be back,” he says, with a glance over his shoulder at the storefront. “But this should get us started for now.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Rosa says, and it sounds like it’s maybe just for herself, a quiet little celebration.

He puts the bags in the back of the truck, returns the carriage, and punches the directions back to the high school into his phone. As they’re pulling out of the parking lot (he looks both ways three times, because he, as a gay, really shouldn’t be driving at all), Rosa, still in good spirits, says, “That was fun.”

“That was very fun,” he says, then holds up his palm. “Give me a high-five?” She nods and smacks it eagerly. He smiles. “That was a good one.”

“That’s because teamwork,” Rosa says, very wisely, and he nods his agreement.

“I’m really glad to have you as my helper,” he tells her. “We’re going to have fun with these costumes. And then they’ll look very pretty on stage. Just you wait.”

Rosa nods. “I like costumes,” she says. “It’s like being a fashion designer.”

“Exactly!”

He is _really_ glad she finally opened up a little. He considers this trip a success on a number of fronts.

“Quinn?”

He looks to her. She’s giving him the lawyer stare once again. “Yes?”

She takes a short breath, then asks, “Are you and Sebastián getting married?”

He isn’t adequately prepared for how sweet the question makes him, and he feels his face get warm, like he’s blushing at the mere thought. Which, on one hand, could be embarrassing, and he’d most certainly be getting chirped or fined if Ben or Remy were around— but it’s just him and Rosa, his maybe future sister-in-law, in the car, and she’s asking honestly, and gosh, if the idea of that doesn’t make him soft all over.

So he answers honestly. “Yes,” he says, because they’ve talked about it plenty. They may not know exactly what comes after graduation, which, mind you, is still a whole year away— but they know, without a doubt, that they’re doing it together. “Not just yet, but someday.”

Rosa smiles. She nods, and folds her arms again. She’s not looking at him when she replies, but the words touch Quinn all the same. “Good.” She pauses. “‘Cause I like you.”

Now he’s _definitely_ red in the face. This little girl is the sweetest.

Gosh, Quinn wants to be a dad someday.

As he drives along— the roads in Arizona are all straight, and they line up like a grid, like a much more stretched-out New York filled with cacti and palm trees instead of skyscrapers. He keeps thinking, being here these past few weeks, that he could see himself living here.

At the edge of his vision a ways up the road, he spots the golden arches, a giant towering advertisement. And he gets a very good idea.

“Rosa,” he says, evenly. “Do you like chicken nuggets?”

“Um, _yeah_?” She doesn’t seem to have spotted it yet, but she looks over at him like he’s asked the most obvious question in the world. “What kind of a person doesn’t like chicken nuggets?”

Quinn laughs. “Fair point,” he replies, then starts to signal. “Do you want a Happy Meal?”


	5. starbucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Nando takes Quinn to his favorite Starbucks at home.... but they find an unwelcome surprise there. Quinn capitalizes on the opportunity.  
> [Orignal prompt: omg when Quinn is in Arizona does he meet N*te? how would that go down??](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/618338631102414848/omg-when-quinn-is-in-arizona-does-he-meet-nte)

_junior-senior summer_ | _may_

One of the first steps of taking your boyfriend home for the summer is showing him around.

For the past six days, that’s what Nando has taken it upon himself to do. He can’t believe, actually, that he and Quinn have been home from school for an entire week already— well, a week tomorrow, but still— and yet here they are, arrived at the last day of Nando’s extensive tour of the Phoenix metro area. They’ve spaced it out— something one day, something another— like dinner at Tio’s one night, an afternoon meeting his best friends from home, showing Quinn his childhood rink.

He’s satisfied with his own performance as a tour guide, but tomorrow means his first shift at Tio’s restaurant, which means that summer job season is really beginning. Which, like, obviously he and Quinn can still hang out— they’re living under the same _roof_ ; and if it’s not Mama or one of the girls, Quinn is the first person he sees every morning. It’s just that once he has a summer job schedule, their days won’t be entirely their own anymore.

For Quinn, he knows, that might be a little weird, at least for these first three weeks until Gabi and Rosa get out of school. Once _they’re_ done, the summer theatre stuff starts up, and Quinn is getting paid to do that, so he’ll have something to do.

In the meantime, though, Nando knows he brought things with him. Like his knitting stuff. And a few books. And his camera.

And until tomorrow, the time is still theirs.

“Okay, my love,” Quinn says, at the kitchen table, over his toast and eggs. The morning is all theirs; Mama is at work, so once they got the twins out the door and onto the bus, Nando made him breakfast. “What’s on the agenda today?”

Nando grins at him. “Oh, you’re curious?”

He shrugs. “In a way.” He’s wearing a baggy KMH shirt tucked into his pajama bottoms, and he hasn’t even done his hair yet. Nando _lives_ for seeing him like this— his obsessively proper boyfriend, who won’t be caught dead in jeans outside of a party, in his pajamas in his family’s kitchen.

It has been six days, and having Quinn at home has given him enough fuel for domestic daydreaming to last a lifetime.

It’s going to be a _good_ summer.

“Well, I saved a good thing for last,” Nando tells him, reaching for his hand across the table. “We’re going to the beach.”

Quinn raises his eyebrows, skeptical. “In Arizona.”

“Yes,” he chirps back, because two can play at this game. “I’m driving you eight hours south to the ocean. Do you have your passport?” Quinn laughs a little, and he adds, “ _No_ , baby, the beach by the river. There’s a little park there. We can sit by the water in the sun.”

“Ooh.” Quinn smiles. “That sounds lovely.”

“But first,” he adds, squeezing his hand. “I’m taking you to my favorite Starbucks.”

Quinn cocks his head, with amusement in his smile now. “You have a favorite Starbucks?”

“You _don’t_ have a favorite Starbucks?” he replies.

“I…” He trails off a little. “I can’t say I do, actually.”

“Well, I’ll educate you.” He brings his hand to his face, kisses it, and says, “Maybe this one will become your favorite.”

Quinn’s smile is the cutest shit he has ever seen. “Maybe so.”

*

In the truck, on the way there, Quinn is watching out the window. “So why is it your favorite?”

“Huh?”

“The Starbucks.” He looks to him across the console. “Why is it your favorite?”

“ _Oh_.” Nando grins. “Well, okay. It’s, like, classic Arizona architecture, and—”

“Wait, you like it because of the architecture?” Quinn chuckles a little. “Are you Ben?”

“Jesus, baby, are you _chirping_ me?” Nando jostles his arm, and Quinn laughs. “You’re a regular KMH member. I’m impressed.”

Quinn shrugs. “I suppose you’re finally rubbing off on me.”

“ _Wow_ .” Nando loves his boyfriend. “I’m honored. But FYI, I was only _starting_ with the reasons I liked it.”

“Okay, continue, then.”

“Okay, so it has a lot of really nice outdoor seating.” Nando pauses. “It’s, like, near a shopping center, but it’s separate from the rest of the stores, so it’s not just some ugly spot. They _always_ have the good cake pops, and plus, the manager is cool. They have blue hair and they wear a bunch of pride pins on their apron.”

“Okay.” Quinn nods, as Nando watches him process. Or at least sort of watches him, because he is, technically, still driving a vehicle, cute as the boy in the passenger’s seat may be. “That _does_ sound like a good Starbucks.” He pauses. “What do you mean by the good cake pops?”

“Lemon ones,” he replies. “And chocolate. And, during Pride month, rainbow.”

“Oh my goodness.” Quinn closes his eyes, like he’s having a moment. “Now I’m craving a cake pop.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re on our way there,” Nando replies, and he laughs.

It only takes a few more minutes to arrive. The parking lot is sort of crowded, but it doesn’t look like a mob scene, which is nice. Nando sees an empty table for two under a palm tree on the patio that has their name on it.

“Here we are,” he remarks, parking the truck across the lot from the door. “Our cake pops await.”

Quinn puts on his sunglasses. Their lenses are rose-gold and circular, and he looks criminally adorable in them. And also kind of super hot. That’s the thing about Quinn. He’s the cutest thing in the world and he’s also the source of literally all of Nando’s thirst. And he can turn on a dime. “I’m ready,” he tells him, combing back his hair. Already, with the past week in the sun, it’s gone a little lighter blond on the top. “I’ll have you know, my expectations are extremely high.”

“Oh, this won’t disappoint you,” Nando assures him. “I promise.”

They walk hand-in-hand across the parking lot, and Nando grabs the door for him. Inside is sweet air-conditioned bliss, and it smells like fresh-roasted coffee beans and the bakery case. Nando hasn’t been in here since Christmas break, and it’s been too long.

There’s a small line, but it won’t take more than a few minutes to get to the register. He tries to see who’s working, in case it’s Shai, but he can’t get a good look at the cashier, and there’s no sign of their blue mohawk among the baristas making the drinks.

Shai is actually, like, thirty, and possibly married, but they memorized his drink order in high school and always complimented him on his pride shirts, so they’re one of those older queer people Nando has just imprinted on. And, okay, yeah. He was totally excited to bring his boyfriend in here to meet them. It’s the little things.

Going around town with Quinn is like showing him off, and he has _never_ been happier.

As they get in line, Quinn wraps his hand around his elbow, leaning into him. “It smells good in here,” he hums, with his head against his shoulder.

“I told you,” Nando replies, kissing his temple. “This is a magical place.”

He checks his phone, briefly, while they wait in line; he hasn’t actually looked at it since he woke up this morning. He has a few Snapchats in the hockey group chat, plus one from Raf, and a separate text from Ben (it looks like he sent him a TikTok; Ben is obsessed with TikTok). He opens the cricket group, turns his front camera on, and snaps a selfie. Quinn is smiling with his cheek against his shoulder, and he himself looks like a little bit of a meme, but Quinn looks cute, so he saves it before he types the caption ( _coffee run y’all want anything_ ) and sends it through.

In exactly twenty seconds, Ben replies. It’s a picture of himself in his work uniform— he delivers pizzas in Providence— and he’s flashing a peace sign at the camera. His hair is in a pink, blue, and yellow striped scrunchie. _ya get me a caramel latte. also yall are gay_

Quinn snickers. “Well, I would sure hope so, Ben.”

Nando pockets his phone and hooks his arm around his neck. “Super gay.”

Quinn leans into his shoulder. “Mm.” He nods. “The gayest.”

They move forward a spot in line, then another. In fact, they move forward three entire spots without incident. Quinn is humming some showtune— it’s from _Spring Awakening_ ; he recognizes it— and Nando is keeping his eyes peeled for Shai, or at least someone he knows. _Look at me! I’m in love and I’m happy_.

But then God says, _be careful what you wish for_.

Because as they move into the spot where they’re up next to order, he catches the sound of the cashier’s voice. “... and can I get a name for the order?”

All of the life leaves Nando’s body.

“Holly? Great.” The voice is nasally, and a little artificially cheerful. He hasn’t heard it— outside of a few drunk voicemails— in over two years, but it evokes a visceral reaction in him. He feels sick, all of a sudden. “That’ll be right up.”

He must be tense all of a sudden, because Quinn peers up at him. “Sebastián?” he asks, and what a difference between two voices. “Are you alright?”

He tries to take a deep breath. “I, um.” He pauses. “I think we have to leave.”

“Next customer, please?”

“Leave?” Quinn squints. “But we’re next!”

The people in front of them step to the side counter, and Nando sputters too long. “We, uh—”

But when the way is clear, it’s too late. “Sebby!”

Nando wants to die.

“Holy shit!” Nate has a different haircut, and a Starbucks apron, but otherwise he’s the same— the same pasty pale skin, the same bony stature, the same face so easily twisted into a scowl. Right now, though, he’s smiling, which, honestly, is an expression that looks alien on him, based on Nando’s memory. “You didn’t tell me you were home from school!”

What he wants to say is, _Nate, why the fuck would I tell you I was home from school,_ but what he does say is, “Uh, hi.”

He is going to cringe himself to death. He’s been home for no less than six days, and he is already running into his ex with his boyfriend.

 _When_ did he start working here?

“It’s been forever!” As Nate keeps on this weirdly cordial tangent, Nando feels Quinn still next to him. Quinn knows vaguely what Nate looks like, but what he knows better is the way he used to act, and the fact that he used to call him Sebby. Also, he’s wearing a nametag. And Nando feels as stiff as a board. “How’ve you been?”

Very carefully, Quinn unwinds his arm from his, and takes a firm, obvious grip on his hand.

“Jeez, I keep trying to reach out to you,” Nate continues, like they’re old friends running into each other, and not exes with a toxic history. “We really should catch up sometime, now that you’re in town.”

Nando takes a long breath, like it’ll fix the tension in his chest. He squeezes at Quinn’s hand, which helps a little. Quinn leads when they step up to the counter, and he inhales like he wants to order, but Nate is _still fucking going_. “Who’s your friend?” he asks.

“Boyfriend,” Quinn blurts, in his _I’m pissed and I mean business_ voice, which, thank _God_ for this boy. “I’m his boyfriend.”

Nate raises his eyebrows a little, looking at Quinn like he’s a five-year-old having a tantrum. “Oh,” he says, shrugging. “My bad. Although, I should’ve known.” Nate’s eyes dart to him for a second, and Nando wants to scrub himself clean of that gaze. “He tends to go for the little guys,” Nate continues, to Quinn, gesturing between the two of them like he’s comparing their heights. Then he shrugs again. “Gotta balance it out, y’know?”

Nando’s stomach turns. It stings, so much, and as _soon_ as this is out of Nate’s mouth he feels Quinn squeeze his hand so hard it’s like he intends to break bones. He squeezes right back, and _God_ , he _knows_ it’s cruel and unnecessary and shouldn’t bother him, and it’s been almost three fucking years since he had to deal with Nate, but it still hurts. It hurts just as much as every comment like that did from him. It sends him back to memories of hating and second-guessing himself, and he just. He feels so fucking humiliated.

Quinn takes a _very_ long breath, his eyes on Nate, while he digests this, and then he says, “Can I get a peach green tea, please.” He pauses, still squeezing the circulation out of his hand, and it is the only thing keeping Nando from tearing up. Which is pathetic. But he’s just. It _hurts_. “And he’ll have a—”

“Mocha frappe. Yeah. I know.” Nate chuckles a little, already grabbing a cup. “Extra whip, right?”

Quinn _bristles_ , face flushing, and finally, Nando finds his voice. “Actually,” he says, “no.” Because even though that _was_ what he was going to order, he doesn’t want to give Nate the satisfaction of thinking he still knows him that well. His Starbucks order may be the same, but there’s _so much_ about him that’s changed since Nate knew him. So much about him that’s better now. Without him. He orders his second favorite. “An iced vanilla latte.” And then, because even though he _really_ doesn’t feel like being polite to him, he feels like Mama might manifest in this Starbucks and kick his ass if he doesn’t say it, he adds, “Please.”

“Hm, my mistake,” Nate says, with a shrug, as he’s writing on the two cups. “I guess you’re a new man, Sebby. We really should catch up.” Quinn’s death grip intensifies, because he knows how much Nando cannot _stand_ being called that. He brings his other hand back to wrap around his elbow, too, like he’s being protective, and Nando has never been more grateful for him.

“Anyway, that’ll be right up.” Nate looks so unbothered, just the way he always did, years ago, when he’d make a comment that left Nando’s self-esteem reeling for days afterward. “I guess I don’t really need your name for the order, huh?”

He’s writing on the cup, and Nando can’t see— or just doesn’t want to— but Quinn must be able to, because he says, “His name is _Sebastián_.”

Nate raises his eyebrows. “Ooh, feisty.” And of course Quinn sounds mad— but Nate making fun of him will do nothing but add more fuel to the fire. Nate looks to him, past Quinn entirely, and adds, “Does he speak for you all the time like this, or—?”

Nando wants to melt into the floor. “Just give us our total, Nate,” he says, because the faster they can get out of here, the better. Quinn is _bristling_ next to him, but stays quiet. 

Nate sighs, shrugs a little, and punches into the cash register. “If you say so,” he says, then announces, “6.23.”

And he thinks that’s going to be the end, but then, as he’s handing over his card, Nate _keeps fucking talking_. “Oh!” he says, still all faux-fake. “Sebby, you should take him to the lake. Remember, when we’d go down there in high school?”

Quinn’s grip on him tightens. This transaction cannot process fast enough. “We had a lot of fun,” Nate says, like he’s reminiscing. “Always did. It’s a shame; I feel like we never really had closure.”

Finally, _finally_ , after what feels like a million years, he hands his card back, and Nando pockets it in a hurry. “C’mon,” he says to Quinn, because he cannot stand here for one more second, and as they walk away, Nate calls after them.

“Hey, give me a shout sometime!” He’s doing the fake-smile thing again. “We should really hang out, now that you’re in town again.”

Nando squeezes his eyes shut and takes a tight breath; he didn’t realize it before, but it’s hard to breathe. He feels sick and humiliated and _awful_ , and when they’re far enough away to be out of earshot, he looks to Quinn and whispers, “Baby, I am _so sorry_.”

Quinn is surprisingly calm, at least in comparison to his clear irritation at the register. He shakes his head and rubs his arm with the free hand that’s not holding his. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I just—” He wants to melt. “I had _no idea_ he started working here; I haven’t even _seen_ him since before freshman year, and it just— like, it _figures_ , right—”

“Sebastián,” Quinn says, and his even voice pulls Nando out of his head. “I’m going to get our drinks, and then we can get out of here, okay?”

Nando lets all his breath out at once, then nods. “I— yeah. Okay. That’s— perfect. I’m sorry, baby.”

“Do not be sorry.” Quinn rises on tiptoe and kisses his cheek. “None of that was your fault.”

Quinn seems surprisingly collected for someone who was just ignored and insulted a minute ago, and Nando has this feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he’s planning something, some kind of revenge— but what could he do, with Nate just working?

They station themselves against the wall by the pick-up counter, and it isn’t lost on Nando how touchy Quinn is being— not that they’d hold back in public for any reason in general, but he’s definitely going the extra mile right now, rubbing the inside of his elbow and leaning his head on his shoulder and holding his hand all at once. Not only is the touch grounding; Nando is also fully aware that Quinn is trying to rub it in Nate’s face should he glance over from his spot behind the counter.

Which, good. Let him fucking stare if he wants to. Nando hasn’t felt that humiliated in a long time.

And he _hates_ that he let it hurt him, that one stupid comment— but it was such a reminder of worse times, times when he’d have to process things like that from the person who was supposed to be his partner all the time, and it was just. It was always hard, and it was always awful, and being with Quinn has helped him work _so much_ on all of that. Quinn taught him, so early on, that he deserved better. Everything with Quinn is better.

He just focuses on holding Quinn’s hand for a minute, until Nate puts their drinks out at the pick-up counter. “Stay here, honey,” Quinn tells him, squeezing his hand before he unwinds his fingers from it. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Nando replies, and watches him go.

Quinn squares his shoulders, takes a short breath, and walks to the counter. Nando is suddenly very aware that something might be about to happen. He leans against the wall and listens in, as he watches Quinn take the two drinks from across the counter.

He’s right. Quinn looks Nate dead in the eye and says, “Hi, could I just remind you of something?”

 _Oh my God_. Nando widens his eyes. Is Quinn about to chew him out?

Nate says nothing, but looks unamused, and Quinn continues. “You broke up with him,” Nando hears him say. “ _After_ you cheated on him, by the way. Just in case you forgot.” Nate raises his eyebrows, but stays silent. Quinn is reeling now, and there’s no stopping him. “And I happen to know an awful lot about the way you treated him, and how much that hurt him, so don’t you _dare_ try to act so friendly, like you didn’t break him.” Nando is frozen in place, as Quinn picks up both of the drinks. “He owes you _nothing_. He clearly does not want to reconnect with you, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want to do that either with someone who did nothing but make me feel awful about myself for two years.” Quinn isn’t even making a scene— the only reason Nando can hear what he’s saying is because he’s not standing that far away— but Jesus Christ, if this isn’t the most satisfying thing to witness in the world. Nate is red in the face and absolutely silent, and Quinn is staring daggers at him; if looks could kill, he’d be dead on sight. “If you wanted to be his friend, maybe you shouldn’t have stomped all over his heart.”

Nando cannot believe his ears.

“And,” Quinn adds, like it’s the end of a big monologue, “I’m going to need two straws.”

Nando is _so in love_ with this boy.

He watches, trying not to smile or even laugh, as Nate fumbles into the thing of straws and shoves two in Quinn’s direction. Quinn takes them, flashes a big, stage smile, and says, “Thank you!” before he turns and walks back in Nando’s direction.

The fake smile turns self-satisfied in a second flat, as he meets Nando’s eyes again. Nando is still kind of frozen, but he wants to kiss him, right in the middle of Starbucks.

All he can say is, “Baby.”

Quinn is all smiles. He looks the way he does when he comes out of the stage door after a great show. “Ready to go, honey?”

“Am I _ever_ ,” Nando says, and they join hands again as they head for the door. He’s not sure if Quinn knows that he heard what he said. “That… was kind of the most satisfying thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

“Oh,” Quinn replies as he sticks his straw into his iced tea, “trust me, Sebastián. It’s the most satisfying thing I’ve _done_ as long as I can remember.” He pauses, as he takes a sip, and then adds, “I’ve been wanting to do that for longer than I can even say.”

“It was hot,” he says, because, well, it _was_ . “And just… _jeez_ , I— maybe something good _did_ come out of this situation.”

“Of course it did,” Quinn replies. His smile is kind of maniacal, and Nando is _into_ it. “I got to have the confrontation of my dreams, _and_ I got an iced tea.” He holds up his drink. “Cheers!”

Nando bumps his vanilla coffee against it and laughs. “Cheers, baby.”

Quinn squeezes his hand. They walk back outside into the summer day, and Nando doesn’t look back.

Not even a glance.


	6. minecraft paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very quick one, in which: Rhodey does some soft bro pining.  
> [Original prompt: Right now all I need is some Rhodey and Touille fluff and maybe a little bit of angst because that's just who I am....but yeah mostly fluff](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/618598676863074304/right-now-all-i-need-is-some-rhodey-and-touille)  
> (This one is the result of a bunch of my Tumblr mutuals feeling some kind of way about a Ben and Remy QPR.)

_sophomore year_ | _march_

It’s not that Ben is addicted to Minecraft. It just...... it helps him relax.

Not that he’s, like, a stressed-out person. It’s just that there’s been a whole lot of shit going on, between the recent completion of midterms and a lot of travel for games on weekends and the impending doom of having to select his major, and it’s— well. Life sometimes necessitates playing Minecraft on a Tuesday at 7 PM.

In his defense, he has nothing better to do. His homework is done, and Nando is at Quinn’s. He _could_ go downstairs and become a functional member of society. He could eat dinner. Or he could just stay here. On his beanbag. With his hair falling in his face. Building the Lourve.

It was Remy’s idea. He was holding a stakeout in here— they both were, last weekend, waiting for Nando to get back from simpleton hours— and Ben wound up turning on his Xbox to pass the time. Remy sat down next to him and watched him open up his server, and it— it was nice. It’s always nice, with him.

Even though he talked shit about his Minecraft version of Meelia, the arena on campus. Like, come on. It’s a work of art.

_Make something European_ , Remy had told him. So, like, fuck you, man. He’s building the entire city of Paris for him. Just to shove it in his face.

He builds with his earbuds in for a solid twenty minutes before he pauses to glance at his phone. He has a Snapchat from that one music major chick with the pink hair, and the group chat is deliberating types of pizza to order for team dinner tomorrow.

You know... whatever. He opens up his texts and sends Remy three letters. _wya_

Remy takes all of two seconds to respond. _I’m in library_

_come to beech im bored :)_

_What’s in it for me?_

_money can’t buy my sparkling personality_

It takes him another twenty minutes, but then the magic happens. There’s a gentle rap on his door, which is already open, and when he looks up, there’s something warm in his chest.

“Hey, duck.”

“Hi.” Remy drops his bag unceremoniously in the doorway. It’s not his backpack. It’s his overnight bag. It’s an unspoken sign that Ben now knows well; he’s sleeping here tonight. Which, like. Fine by him. That would explain the twenty minutes it took him to get over here.

“Come sit.” Ben scoots over on his beanbag. They’re experts at fitting two human beings into it. Three, sometimes, with Nando. But he’s like a human beanbag. And it’s the _best_.

Ben likes cricket piles. But doing it alone with Remy....... that’s different.

Remy leaves his sneakers at the door. He’s in a KMH sweatshirt and his track pants, and when he sinks down into the beanbag next to him, he smells _so good_. Which, yeah, is a little weird for Ben to notice. But Remy sort of always smells good. It’s the least college athlete thing about him— he has this thing about keeping up appearances.

“What are you building?” he asks, tipping his head down onto Ben’s shoulder.

It’s a simple gesture, but it gives him butterflies. Obviously, platonic snuggly bro butterflies. Not _I regularly snuggle with the person I’m in love with and he’ll never even come close to returning my feelings but it’s chill because at least he likes to snuggle me_ butterflies.

“I’m making you a city,” he informs him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tugging him to settle into his chest. When they’ve got the tangled thing down right, Ben can still hold his controller. “You wanna help?”

“Hold on.” Remy pauses, shifting against him a little, and then exhales. His weight is a welcome feeling. The beanbag is too small for both of them, but Ben never wants to move. “You’re making _me_ a city?”

“Of course I am.” Ben pauses. He keeps his eyes on his screen, lest he get caught up in the snuggle. “You told me to build something European.”

Remy snorts. “I didn’t think you’d take me _seriously_.”

“Don’t diss my Minecraft game and expect me not to take it serious, Rem.”

“Oh.” He laughs again, this chirpy thing. “My bad.”

Ben pauses his play to ruffle his hair. Remy wraps his arm around the front of his chest.

It’s...... he could just do this. All the time. He _has_ been doing this. For a year. But lately he hasn’t wanted to do it with anyone else, either.

He builds for a few more minutes, then saves his progress at a good spot, turns off the TV, and puts aside his controller. With both hands free, he wraps Remy up like he intends to squeeze the life out of him. Remy laughs and pounds his chest.

“Hey,” he says, with his face still resting on his shoulder. “Roughhousing.”

“I missed you today,” Ben says, as he releases him. Because of course he missed him. He always does. “How was your day?”

“It was fine.” Remy pauses. He yawns a little, pressing his face into his shoulder, and then settles back down onto his chest. “I think I might want a nap, if that’s okay with you.”

“That is totally good by me.” Ben pauses, then checks, because he has to. “But a nap at seven won’t fuck up your sleep schedule?”

Remy yawns again. “Bold of you to assume I’m not sleeping straight through the night.”

“ _Ducky_.”

“I’m not serious, Ben.” Remy pauses, then stretches his legs out across him and announces, “I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute.”

“Okay,” Ben says, helpless, because that’s all he is.

He naps on him for an entire hour and a half, and Ben does not move once.


	7. moritz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Quinn gets an important theatre-related call.  
> If you haven't followed along with the weekly ["Quinn Theatre Hours"](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/tagged/quinn-theatre-hours/chrono) on my Tumblr, this one will likely require some context. [This post on my tumblr will give you all of said context!](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/619130678085304320/first-up-tonight-a-ficlet-in-which-quinn-gets-an)

_sophomore year_ | _february_

If there’s one thing Quinn is an expert at, it’s anticipating disappointment.

Because the fact is, if you expect the least, you’ll never _really_ be disappointed with what you get. Either you get what you predicted, or you wind up unexpectedly and happily surprised.

Quinn has had a lot of practice with it. He expected Kiersey’s admissions department to reject his application; instead, he got a nice surprise in the form of a scholarship. He came into college vowing not to actively seek out a relationship, and then met the boy of his dreams. Every single audition he’s ever partaken in has come with the assumption that he won’t be cast. Every time he’s _been_ cast, it’s merely come as a pleasant surprise.

So this time around is no different. He isn’t going to be disappointed if he doesn’t get the part, because he isn’t going to get the part.

This audition has been the biggest of his life. It’s also required the most of him, and he doesn’t regret any of the effort and work he’s put into it. It’s been months coming— since before winter break with his earliest knowledge of the opportunity, to his endless preparation once he secured an audition slot, to his solo trip to New York and back, in a record 48-hour round trip.

That was the most recent part. A bus trip down on Friday, a Saturday and Sunday packed with the most intense audition process he’s ever been through, two nights by himself in a somewhat seedy hotel, a bus trip back, a six-hour power nap in Sebastián’s room. It was hard— of course it was hard— but it was exhilarating, in a way, being with all those people, all of that talent in one place. Introducing himself to production staff. Getting tested for different parts. Meeting the other actors. And gosh, communicating— he must have signed more this weekend than he normally does during an entire semester at school.

It was… a dream. Because if he’s being honest, _this_ would be a dream. This audition means more to him than any other one has. It’s why he worked so hard to prepare it. Even if he doesn’t get the part, he considers himself lucky to even have gotten the chance to try.

He thinks he’ll have the sign choreography for “Don’t Do Sadness” drilled into his head for the rest of time. He practiced constantly for two months— in his room, on the way to class, under the table at meals. Even over winter break, back home. _What are you doing?_ Oma asked, one morning, when she caught him mid-practice in his room.

_Oh, um… I just got a song stuck in my head._

No, this… it’s more than a dream. He’s watched videos of Deaf theatre for years, idolizing the very people he got to interact and work with at this weekend’s audition. He’s not sure he’s ever heard of something that feels made so specifically for him. There’s something different about Deaf theatre, something beautiful, that means more to him than he’s sure he even knows how to put into words. He loves hearing theatre, sure, but it’s not made to be accessible, not made with his own culture in mind. The thought of participating in _this_ … it’s more than a dream. It’s career-making, once-in-a-lifetime, unthinkably exciting.

But none of that matters, because he isn’t going to get the part.

He isn’t even talking about it. And he’s been trying, so hard, not to think about it, not to obsess over the anticipation. He’s tried to make that promise to himself, even from the moment the production staff sent him and the others off on Sunday. _Thank you_ , they signed, at the abrupt end of the long callback process, after he’d been through his maybe fourth read-through with Kyra, the girl from Louisiana he’s sure will be cast as Ilse. _We’ll be in touch._

And that was all. He got on a train, came back to Kiersey, and it was over. Now it’s Tuesday.

He isn’t going to get the part.

He walks into the dining hall after his morning chem lab, with a heaping salad on his tray but also a plate of French fries, because he deserves it. The dining room is busy, and his usual Tuesday table is already populated.

He weaves through the disaster scene that is at least two hundred college students trying to figure out where to sit or crowding at their claimed tables, and when he reaches the empty seat that’s been saved for him, he plops down with a little exhale and turns the volume down in his ears.

“Quinndela!”

“Hey, baby.” Sebastián smiles from the seat next to him, and Quinn leans up to peck him on the cheek.

“Hi, honey,” he replies, then nods across the table. “Ben. Remy.”

Remy waves his fork. He’s eating chicken tenders with a fork, which… is strange behavior, honestly, but who is Quinn to judge. Next to him, Ben is fixing his hair, because he’s always fixing his hair. It’s in a bright-purple scrunchie, currently.

“How’s it going, Mini?” he asks, as he twirls a loose strand around his finger like he’s trying to curl it. “I was severely deprived of your presence.”

“I’m well, Ben.” He drapes his peacoat over the back of his chair. “And yourself?”

“Oh, I’m feeling _great_.” He finishes whatever hair mission he’s on, then shakes himself out and takes a huge sip of his chocolate milk. “You know—”

Sebastián knocks his knee against his under the table. “How was lab?”

“Long,” Quinn sighs, with a small smile, as he meets his eyes. Sebastián is wearing his brand-new Kiersey Hockey sweatshirt, which Quinn is extremely tempted to take hostage of. “But still interesting.”

“Hey, Nanny,” Ben cuts in. “I was trying to talk to my man. Back off.”

Sebastián rolls his eyes. “My bad, Rho.”

Ben winks at him, and Remy rolls his eyes, shaking his head at the ceiling. “Anyway,” Ben says. “Q. We were trying to settle a debate.”

Quinn picks up a fry. It’s sort of greasy, but fries from the dining hall always are, and that doesn’t mean they don’t taste good anyways. To Ben, he says, “Enlighten me.”

“Okay.” Ben spreads his arms out on the table, and he has this look in his eyes, like some kind of wise-guy remark is coming. Quinn has a feeling there was no actual debate going on before he got here, because Remy and Sebastián look equally wary of Ben’s shit-eating grin.

Finally, Ben says, “So if a tree falls in a forest—”

Quinn sighs. Remy groans. Sebastián laughs. “Ben,” Quinn mumbles. “It’s been a year.”

“ _But does it make a sound_?!?”

“Of course it does,” Remy whispers, like a spouse who has been dealing with his shit for far too long.

Ben smacks the table, leaning to him menacingly. “But how do you _know_?!”

Remy pinches his brow. “Because the basic laws of physics…”

He careens over him, like he’s getting ready to stand up in his chair. “But _how_ do you _know_?”

Quinn shakes his head at him. “Does this bring you joy?”

“So much joy,” Ben replies, with a huge smile. “If you didn’t want me to ask, you shouldn’t’ve sang about it for, like, two hours straight.”

Quinn pops the fry into his mouth. “I regret nothing,” he says, once swallowing. Under the table, he hooks his ankle around Sebastiàn’s.

“Rem’s just pissed because he knows I’m right,” Ben says. “It bends his fragile mind to consider it.”

“Sure.” Remy sighs at his chicken. “That’s exactly it.”

Ben reaches to ruffle his dirty blond hair. “Love you.” Remy smiles halfway at him, and Quinn has to restrain himself from blowing a gasket on behalf of the queer disaster that is their relationship.

But then— somewhere in his vicinity, he feels a phone vibrate. At first, he thinks it’s Sebastián’s. He looks to him. “Your phone?”

Sebastián points to his lunch tray— his phone, with its Arizona Coyotes case and pride sticker, is sitting right next to his student ID, and notably not ringing. “What about it?”

“Oh.” Quinn digs into the pocket of his slacks. “It’s me, then.”

“Is it in your coat?” Sebastián reaches behind him, to where it’s hanging on his chair.

He nods, still searching. “It must be.” He reaches for another pocket, and hunts around until Sebastián produces it from the right breast pocket of his peacoat.

“Who is it?” Ben asks, as Sebastián hands it over.

Quinn studies the screen. He doesn’t recognize the number calling him. It begins with 212, and the location gives him a little rush of what could be nerves.

_New York, New York_

“Quinny?”

“Q?”

“Baby?”

“It’s…” He looks up. “Some New York number.”

Ben gasps. Sebastián grabs his knee under the table. “The audition people?”

“It could be.” He takes a deep breath, as he looks at his flashing screen. “Or it could just be a spam number. You know how they’re always calling.”

“ _Baby_!” Sebastián jostles his leg a little. When he looks up to him again, he’s smiling— and it’s such a sweet expression, Quinn could melt. “You’ve gotta answer it,” he says.

And Quinn knows he’s right.

He hovers his thumb over the green button on the screen for a split second. Across the table, Ben says, “Quinnathan, if you don’t pick up that call.”

“I’m _going_ , Ben,” he replies, then hits the green button. “My goodness,” he stage-whispers, as it’s connecting, and covers his left ear as he holds the phone to his right. “Hello?”

A crackle. He takes another steadying breath. The dining hall, all of a sudden, feels much too loud. He can feel three pairs of eyes glued right to him.

And then a voice. “Hi, I’m calling for Quinn Cooper? This is Mike from Deaf West.”

Somewhere in Quinn’s stomach, a cluster of knots form. He can’t remember the last time he was _nervous_ because of a phone call. “Oh!” he says, and now the dining room is _definitely_ too loud. “Yes, this is he.”

“Quinn, hi.” Mike was one of the production staff who oversaw the audition process— he’s not the director, but something else, assistant director, maybe? Or ASM? He was tough, but Quinn wasn’t scared of him, exactly. He just desperately wanted to impress him. “I hope this is an okay time?”

“Oh, yes,” he replies, standing up from his chair. “Yes, this— this is a perfectly good time. Just give me one moment; I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to miss your call, but I’m in the dining hall at my college; it’s a bit crowded.”

“Take your time,” Mike replies, but Quinn will do no such thing. He grabs his student ID, tucks his jacket under his arm, and waves to the three of them at the table, giving a brief squeeze to Sebastián’s shoulder before he goes.

“Thank you,” he says into the phone, as he bustles out toward the lobby, where it’s much quieter. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry about that.” The noise fades, and he stops blocking his ear. “I could barely hear myself think in there.”

Mike laughs. This is a good sign, right? “Whereabouts do you go to school again? Up in New Hampshire, correct? Is it Kiersey?”

 _Goodness_ , he remembers his school. Given that Quinn was merely a face among dozens of others, this gives him a glimmer of hope he shouldn’t have. “Yes!” He perches himself carefully on a low window ledge, huddling up next to the glass. It’s far enough away from the dining room to field a call, but far enough from the door that he won’t freeze should it open with people traffic. “Yes, that’s correct. I go to Kiersey.”

“How do you like it there?” Is Mike… making small talk? Quinn isn’t nervous, but gosh, he’s curious about the purpose of this call. This could be his way of cushioning a rejection.

Still, Quinn plays the game, because what are you going to do, _not_ talk to a professional stage producer? “Oh, it’s lovely.” He looks around. Even the lobby of this building is beautiful. “I can’t believe it’s my second year already. I feel like I’ve just started.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Mike replies. “College goes by in a flash.”

Quinn laughs. He feels thirty years old. “You can say that again.”

“And the theatre program there?” Mike continues. “How’s it for you?”

“Oh, it’s a dream come true,” he says, because it is. Kiersey Drama is his safe haven. “We’re in the heat of spring musical season now.”

“What’s the show?”

“ _Chicago_.” He has rehearsal tonight.

“And you’re playing?”

He grins, though Mike can’t see him. “Mister Billy Flynn.”

Mike hums, which could be something like approval, and comments, “I actually got the chance to watch a bit of the video they posted online of last year’s production.”

Quinn’s stomach knots. “ _Dear Evan Hansen_?”

“Indeed.” Mike pauses, like he didn’t just casually mention that he has been online viewing the show Quinn starred in for his Kiersey debut. He’s going to have an aneurysm in about two seconds if Mike doesn’t get to the point of the call already. He can’t just be calling prospective actors to shoot the breeze? “It’s really great work. I wasn’t there, of course, but it looks like you did an outstanding job.”

“My goodness.” Quinn presses a hand to his cheek. It’s warm. “Thank you so much. It was a dream show.” He pauses, and wonders if it’s worth testing the waters. Whatever the staff has decided is already set in stone, he’s sure, so what he says won’t sway Mike, but it’s the truth all the same. “And so is _Spring Awakening_.”

“Ah.” Mike lets off a knowing laugh. “Forgive me for getting off-topic. That _was_ the point of my making this phone call.”

Quinn laughs, but he’s finding it hard to breathe. He can’t remember the last time a casting caused him this much anxiety.

He meant what he said. This _is_ a dream show. It’s a dream production.

“Look, Quinn,” Mike says. “I’ve been going through the actors from day two of auditions and giving them calls. I wanted to reach out and say you really impressed all of us this weekend.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

“We had a lot of people coming from all over to audition, and you did stick out.”

He knows how this ends. _But we’ve decided that you’re not the best fit for our cast at this time. Thank you for auditioning._

Mike pauses for a heart-pounding second. _Gosh_ , Quinn thinks, _just get it over with_. Once it’s done, he can get on with his life. No use dwelling.

“Quinn, I’d like to ask you to join us this summer as Moritz.”

Quinn very nearly drops his phone.

He doesn’t, thank gosh. The poor iPhone 4 is on its last legs as it is, and a cracked screen is the very last thing it needs. But he nearly does. He sits bolt upright in the window ledge, and presses a hand to his face. He can’t have heard that correctly.

“Oh, my goodness,” he gets out, finally, in some version of coherent English. “You’re serious?”

Mike laughs. “Of course I’m serious. We’re reaching out to the cast members one by one. After the audition, we knew you’d be a perfect fit. If you take the part, of course.”

He’s shaking. He feels like he could tear up. A real, professional production— a summer on tour. A _Deaf_ production. He smiles so hard his cheeks ache. “I— _yes_ , I accept the role. I’d be honored. Thank you so much.”

“Quinn, it’s my pleasure,” Mike says, like it’s no big deal, and he hasn’t just granted the wish of all fairy godmother wishes. “We’re all looking forward to working with you.”

The rest of the phone call is a blur— a rough outline of instructions for what comes next in the process, mention of promised future emails with your stops and scheduling, ways he can get in touch with his castmates. Mike sends him off with well wishes and a _we’ll talk soon_ , and then… that’s it. They hang up. Quinn is alone at the window ledge in the lobby.

And he’s a cast member on Deaf Spring Awakening.

 _Ahhh!_ He jumps out of the ledge. He wants to celebrate now— but he’d rather do it with Sebastián, with his friends.

So he tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket, takes a long breath, squares his shoulders, and starts a very calm walk back into the dining room.

The buzz of noise returns. He sees Sebastián, who has no doubt been watching the door for his return, catch sight of him, and try a wave. Quinn waves back, but resolves not to show any emotion on his face. Sebastián flashes a thumbs-up, but with a question mark in his eyes, like he’s trying to gauge if the call was good.

Quinn bites back his smile.

He will wait.

He makes it back to the table, conscious again that all three boys are staring at him. “Hi, baby,” Sebastián says, as he sits back down. He rests his big, warm hand on his back, like he’s anticipating emotional support.

Quinn looks at his salad. The table is quiet and tentative for a split second, and finally Ben goes, “ _Well_?”

Quinn allows himself a shrug. He reaches for Sebastián’s water glass. “It was about my audition.”

Ben gestures to move him along. “And?”

They’re all staring at him. He takes a long sip of water. It’s ice-cold, and very refreshing.

When he finishes, he sets it down gently, and then, after looking between the three of them, he decides he cannot keep this composure for one more second.

He is _going on a professional summer tour_.

His smile gives out first, and he doesn’t bother with volume control as he cries, “I got the part!”

The boys explode.

Because they are, after all, members of Kiersey Men’s Hockey, they unleash the full force of a sports celebration. He is simultaneously crushed by a hug from Sebastián and ambushed by shouts from both Ben and Remy. Ben, in fact, leaps clean out of his seat, which almost sends his chocolate milk into Remy’s lap. “ _QUINNOTHY COOPER_ !!! _You talented fucking bastard_!!!!!”

“Q!” he hears Remy cry, all smiles, leaning across the table. “Dude! Holy shit! Congratulations!”

Sebastián is in his ear. It’s his favorite sound. “Baby!” he half laughs, half shouts. “Oh my God!”

Quinn laughs into his chest, squeezes him tight around the waist. Ben is still shouting profanities. He can feel the stink-eye of many a Kiersey diner on their little four-person table for disturbing the peace.

Good. Let them look! He doesn’t care.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, baby,” Sebastián is saying, face pressed close to the top of his head. “ _God_ ,” he kind of laughs, then squeezes him tighter. Quinn is in his glory. “You did it. I knew you could do it. Holy _shit_ , I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he thinks maybe now he _actually_ might tear up. He didn’t give himself permission to want this as badly as he knew he did, and now he _has_ it, and he just—

“You beautiful fucking human being.”

“Q, you’re gonna be a superstar.”

“I love you, baby.”

He loves all three of these people.

But especially one. He lifts his head, finally, and Sebastián is waiting; he gives him a quick and gentle kiss. He thinks maybe they’ll celebrate better later, just the two of them.

“I love you too,” he whispers.

For now, he is a newly cast professional. And he is going to eat his lunch.


	8. human pillow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Quinn wakes up, and Nando is a snuggly boy.  
> [Original prompt: What are Quindo like waking up together on a morning?](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/619606085673893888/what-are-quindo-like-waking-up-together-on-a)

_freshman year_ | _april_

Gradually, Quinn is coming to the conclusion that he no longer has a single.

Well. He supposes that’s not _entirely_ true. He’s still the only one who inhabits this room as far as the RAs know, the only one who keeps all his clothes and things here, the only one whose ID works when he swipes to unlock the door. But as the semester draws closer to its end, he’s noticed a small pattern. A solid four times out of five, Sebastián spends the night in here with him.

Not that he’s complaining.

This morning— a Saturday, thank goodness— he wakes up almost completely covered by him. They always tend to fall asleep the same way; they have a comfortable pattern down, by now. When they’re ready for sleep, which sometimes doesn’t come until the more ungodly hours of the morning, but it does come eventually, Quinn will stretch out right on top of him, as he lies there facing the ceiling. In effect, he’ll use Sebastián as a human body pillow— facing him to rest his head on his chest, hooking one arm up near his neck, rubbing his warm belly with the other.

It sounds elaborate, when you put it that way, but it’s just natural now. It’s the best way to sleep. Quinn is fond of sleeping on top of him like that.

The only thing is, Sebastián tends to move in his sleep. Which Quinn doesn’t mind, and doesn’t plan to mind unless he wakes up on the floor spontaneously one day. Today, that hasn’t happened, but he _is_ in a very different position than he was when they went to sleep last night.

In other words, Sebastián is totally on top of him, this huge, warm mass of muscle and skin. One of his arms is wrapped tight around Quinn’s narrow waist, and his face is pressed into his neck by the pillow. The deep, slow breathing in the rise and fall of his chest signals to Quinn that he’s still very much asleep. He has a faceful of dark, messy curls that smell like the good shampoo he picked out for him, and there’s stubble prickling against his neck. Quinn can _breathe_ , but in effect, he’s being crushed in every other way.

And he, well... he _loves_ it.

He likes feeling his weight on him, while they rest together like this, and always has, maybe just for the sensory comfort. It’s a feeling he can’t find anywhere else. He wonders if a weighted blanket might serve him well when he goes home for the summer and has to endure four months of a distinct lack of gigantic, cuddly boyfriend in his bed. But something in him knows that a weighted blanket won’t be a fantastic substitute for the real boy.

Quinn exhales. He tightens his arm around his bare back.

He’s so comfortable, he’s not sure he ever wants to move.

The problem is that they’ll both have to do so, eventually. It’s not that any of them have something _concrete_ on their schedules, exactly; with both the show and playoffs over, the rest of April will be free for them in a way they haven’t known in several months prior. But he knows Sebastián is supposed to have team breakfast this morning, and as for himself, he has a lab report that needs working on. He should call Tess, too, at some point today.

But none of that, at least for the moment, is immediate. Right now, it’s the two of them, waking in bed, like there’s nothing else in the world.

As if, in sleep, he can read his mind, Sebastián stirs just slightly, shifting against him. His face moves where it’s resting on his neck, and he curls one huge hand around his waist beneath the sheets. Quinn’s shirt has ridden up in his sleep; Sebastián is holding him beneath it. What feels like a long time ago now, Sebastián ditched sleeping with a shirt on altogether.

Again... Quinn isn’t complaining.

Then there’s a little rumble against his chest, like Sebastián has made a noise— maybe speech, or maybe just a sleepy grunt. Quinn squeezes under his shoulder; he’s a little sweaty, which is, well, a little gross, but he’s become more acquainted with _gross_ as a concept ever since he started dating a frat boy in the first place.

He’s willing to forgive it.

Sebastián lifts his head, and Quinn near melts at the sight of that. He’s just the same as he was when they fell asleep, soft curls all a mess and in need of a shave; his brown eyes are hazy with rest, and he blinks the sleep away as they meet eyes.

Quinn smiles at him. The springtime light catches him through the window in all the right ways.

Sebastián shifts a little, to prop himself on an elbow, and cups his cheek in his other hand. The kiss he gives him is sweet, although he tastes thoroughly like morning breath, which is another gross thing Quinn is willing to forgive.

Because his lips are soft, and it’s a loving gesture, and he’s grown so fond of these good-morning kisses. He kisses back, and for the moment, they say nothing, because nothing needs to be said.

He really, really enjoys waking up with him.

When they’ve exchanged a few of those kisses, sleepy and slow, Sebastián shifts up a little and does say something. Quinn feels the distant speech vibrate where he’s pressed against him, but his eyes are still closed for the first bit of it, so he misses what’s said. He looks up to him, stays close, and arches an eyebrow.

This time, he can see what he asks. _Am I crushing you?_ His voice, at whatever volume it might be, is a gentle vibration against his chest, a soothing feeling.

Quinn laughs a little, shakes his head, and pulls him back down to give him another kiss. _Never_ , he whispers, or at least thinks he whispers. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Mornings like these never really require talking. He’s spent hours in bed with him on lazy Saturdays and Sundays, not bothering with his hearing aids until past ten or even later.

Sebastián traces, just gently, along his cheekbone with his thumb. He’s smiling again, this carefree and lovely expression, and his touch is gentle despite his strength. He can be soft even while so strong, and Quinn has loved that about him from the very start.

There’s a time and place for both things.

Quinn hums a little, then tucks his face up into his neck, pulling him down and winding both arms around his back again. He’s big and squishy, wonderfully warm. Sebastián squeezes him right back, and the pressure is so, so welcome.

This is the safest place in the world, and _gosh_ , has Quinn gotten used to it.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, with his head buried in his neck still, smelling sweat and shampoo and tasting morning breath. He doesn’t say it, not yet, but gosh, does he think it. He thinks he’s been in love with him for quite awhile.

He thinks he could do this for a long, long time.

Including this morning. Lab report be damned.

Well.

They do have at least an hour to kill.


	9. movie night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Nando has body image issues. Quinn loves the way his boyfriend looks.  
> Small content warning for body image problems and allusions to past body-shaming. Also references to sex, but only offhanded references and nothing on-page.  
> [ Original prompt: Maybe a bit of a convo on Nando’s body issues?](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/620660592815095808/hi-not-theatre-related-but-can-you-elaborate-on)

_freshman year_ | _february_

  
Technically, they’re supposed to be watching a movie right now.

And, like. Nando is _not_ complaining, not in the slightest and not for a second. It’s just that the fact remains; he and Quinn shut themselves into Quinn’s dorm tonight with the intention of watching a movie. _50 First Dates_ , to be more specific. It was his turn to pick, and he felt like something cheesy and funny. Quinn complied, because they have a good system in place. It’s the same every time: they hole up in his dorm, shut all the lights except the string ones over the pride flag, and conduct a series of intricate blanket rituals in order to wrap themselves up just the right way. Quinn usually shuts his hearing aids off, unless it’s a movie with music; tonight, they’re off, and the subtitles, as always, are on.

Given the time of year it is, they’re both finding free nights relatively scarce— Quinn is bound to hours-long rehearsals almost every night, and Nando’s weekends are full of the game schedule; they’re each in the heat of the busy season for their respective extracurricular activity.

So tonight, as a concept, should not be happening. But by a stroke of luck, tonight has.

Because early this morning, a Saturday, with a roadie to Maine on the schedule, Nando woke up to the news that their game had been snowed out, and would have to be postponed. As if to prove it, he looked out the dorm window to see inches of white coating the ground, and more coming down fast.

Tonight, over twelve hours later, the storm rages on. It’s the biggest blizzard he’s seen yet, and it’s _beautiful_ — but it also means your schedule gets all messed up. When that means you can have an in night with your boyfriend, though, there’s really no downside to said mess-up of your schedule.

Because, like. They sleep in the same bed regularly by now, but in the simplest sense, Nando has _missed_ Quinn while they’ve both been so busy. He knows it won’t really let up until Quinn’s show is over, and that’s okay; he’s more than glad to make the busy work in the five weeks that remain until that happens. They can get meals together, and he can pick him up and walk him back to the dorm from late rehearsal, or slip into his room for a cuddle when he gets back from a roadie. It’s just that copious amounts of _free_ alone time together are relatively scarce. When they aren’t supposed to be sleeping, that is.

Anyway. The point is, they said they’d watch a movie tonight.

They are, notably, no longer watching the movie.

It starts small. Quinn is in his lap, where he always is when they’re watching something together. He rests between his legs, backed up against his chest and swimming in his good KMH hoodie that’s now permanently hostage. He rubs Nando’s knee absentmindedly for the first couple of minutes, and Nando is so warm and comfortable all snuggled up with him like this that he’s almost drowsy. Or maybe not _drowsy_ , exactly— he doesn’t want to go to _sleep_ ; he just… he can’t remember when he was last quite this relaxed.

A little after that, Quinn reaches for his hand, and he laces their fingers together; Quinn’s small palm fits perfectly in his own. He brings both their hands up to his face, and kisses Nando’s knuckles before he presses the back of his palm against his own face. Quinn’s cheek, on that side of his hand, is warm. Nando moves to cup his face entirely, stroking at his chin just a little with his thumb.

Quinn hums, something like agreement. Adam Sandler is making an ass of himself on the computer screen, and Nando would be paying attention if the boy in his lap weren’t infinitely more interesting.

He huddles his face down into Quinn’s neck, squeezing him tight around the waist with his free arm, and presses a few gentle kisses to the base of his chin. Quinn laughs, this quiet little noise, and it’s music to his ears. Nando strokes one more time at his chin before he looks up entirely.

Quinn is already looking over at him, and when he lifts his head, it puts them only a few inches away. He gets lost, for a second, in the way the little string lights catch in Quinn’s blue eyes, and the way a dusting of freckles clusters by his nose. He’s so cute that it’s sometimes too much for Nando’s brain to handle.

Then he watches Quinn lick his lips a little. Nando seizes the opportunity, and gives him a gentle kiss.

Or at least it _starts_ gentle; the first one is gentle. Immediately, the movie is nothing but background noise. Nando holds his face in the hand that’s still cupping his cheek, and the second kiss is a bit longer. Quinn cups his hand under his knee, and it’s by the third kiss that Nando realizes that this might not be an isolated occurrence.

He pulls away enough to meet his eyes. They’ve gotten really good at communicating with a look.

And he _likes_ the look in Quinn’s eyes right now. Nando reaches for the space bar on his laptop, hovering his hand over it, and darts his gaze there to ask him a wordless question. Without saying anything at all, Quinn gives him a little nod, and it’s all he needs.

He pauses the movie, then twists to face him a little better, and kisses him again. There’s more heat in it now, but they still move relatively slowly together; it’s a very nice sensation. Quinn’s lips are soft, and they taste like that lip balm egg he’s been applying religiously ( _it’s the driest time of year, Sebastián; my lips just get so chapped_ ). It’s kind of minty but kind of sweet, too, and he’s started to entirely associate that kind of flavor with kissing him. Which. Just. He _loves_ kissing this boy.

Quinn pulls away for a second, flashes the world’s certified cutest little half-smile, and then reaches, very artfully, for the laptop to close it entirely.

God, Nando is _so_ glad they’re on the same page tonight.

Quinn turns in his lap, so they’re facing each other, and it’s a much easier position to make out in. It’s the ideal one, actually, if Nando is being honest. Quinn tucks right up against his chest, sitting neatly in his lap with his legs around his waist, and Nando can hold him up any way he pleases. Tonight, Quinn is in actual pajama pants, as opposed to the criminally, _very_ distractingly short shorts that he’ll wear to bed sometimes, so Nando restricts himself— at least for the moment— from touching his ass, as tempting as it may be. (Sue him. Quinn is in good shape.)

Now _this_ is an effective position, and requires no twisting on either of their part. The laptop is quickly forgotten entirely. Quinn is just— he’s so good, he’s so perfect, from his swoopy hair to his hand-knit socks, and they haven’t had a good little makeout session in awhile, and Nando just. He _loves_ this. He has him right where he wants him, and everything is just _so fucking good_ , and Nando is lost in the way it feels, like a high he never wants to come down from— until Quinn reaches under his shirt.

He doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t want to stop, but it _does_ pull him off that carefree high. Quinn’s hands rest on either side of his waist, small palms and nimble fingers against his squishy skin, and he tries so hard not to recoil or show anything that would seem like discomfort.

Because he isn’t uncomfortable. He’s _never_ been uncomfortable, even now, as Quinn’s hands play at his love handles, with no shirt separating his touch from everything unimpressive Nando has to offer under there. There’s just this feeling that rushes to him every time Quinn reaches under his shirt— this is the third time or maybe the fourth— and it’s not so much _don’t touch me there_ as opposed to _why would you want to touch me there_.

Quinn has never said a single negative thing about the way he looks; if anything, he’s been encouraging the whole time they’ve been dating, and Nando _knows_ he shouldn’t be ashamed, for that reason. But he just has too much instilled in him, too much leftover, to be able to forget about it, especially when his boyfriend’s hands are on his skin like this.

He kisses him anyway. He’s gotten better, ever since Quinn did it the first time— asking, of course, if it was okay, and Nando told him yes, because even though it was strange, it felt _good_ , and how could he tell him no? He wants this, this intimacy, he just— he has to figure out how not to be ashamed.

The first time was the hardest, and it’s getting easier. He thinks, this time, that he’ll be able to handle it without incident, without a pause, without anything— but as Quinn’s left hand lingers, pushing his shirt up gently at his stomach, his right disappears, suddenly. Nando opens his eyes, and Quinn is turning his ears back on.

He waits. If Quinn turns his ears on on these quiet nights, it’s because he wants to have a conversation, or at least to exchange a few words. He thinks this is a weird time to want to talk, but all Quinn says at first is, “Is this okay?”

“Huh?” he says, like an idiot who can’t understand a basic question.

“This.” Quinn rubs his belly. He returns his other hand to where it was and, with gentle fingers, inches his shirt up a few more inches. “That I’m… that my hands are here.”

Nando nods, rapid-fire, because, confused as he is as to _why_ Quinn wants to touch him there, this feels too intimate to interrupt. “Of course, baby,” he tells him, and Quinn smiles. He kisses him again, pushing his shirt up a little further. This goes on for a few more kisses, Quinn’s hands stationed now around the top of his chest, and Nando feels— exposed, a little, but mostly just heart-poundingly eager. Quinn nips at his lower lip, and he can’t restrain the groan he lets off in response.

He _should_ see it coming, but he’s still caught off-guard when Quinn tugs at his shirt again and whispers, “Sebastián, can I take this off?”

And _now_ , finally, like his body and his mind have been out of sync this whole time, he freezes. It’s almost mortifying, because he still _doesn’t_ feel uncomfortable, but he just— _why_ , why would Quinn want to take his shirt off? Why would he want to see that?

But he wants to let him. _God_ , he wants to let him, because Quinn has, several times now, touched him in _much_ more inappropriate places, and he’s done the same on the giving end, and he’s pretty sure that actual _sex_ is pretty far off but they’ve grown more comfortable with sexual _acts_ . So how can you be afraid to take your shirt off, if you’ve done _that_?

He has to stop being so stupid. He nods, to Quinn, at first just once and then a few more times to solidify it— maybe to Quinn or maybe to himself. “Yes,” he says, before he can change his mind.

He _has_ to stop being stupid.

Quinn smiles again. “Okay,” he hums, in a voice so sweet Nando thinks he could melt.

He lets him pull it up over his head. If Quinn wants to touch him, he guesses he understands, but he figures he should keep kissing him a bunch so he won’t have to look too hard. As Quinn tosses his shirt aside, the kiss they share is long and lingering— but then Quinn pulls away. Nando’s heart speeds up a little again, as he smiles at him.

“You okay?” he asks, and prays his voice doesn’t sound as self-conscious as he feels.

Quinn nods. He looks at ease, and he presses both his hands to his stomach, out in the open now, all his chub for him to see. “Hold on,” he hums. “Before we get back to it.”

“Okay,” Nando says, and stays still, but his mind is racing. Why is he stopping?

“Just… let me look at you.” Quinn is smiling. He takes a long, deep breath, and his eyes are glued to all the parts of Nando that he hates about himself, and Nando cannot for one second figure out why Quinn would _ever_ want to look at that with a smile like that on his face.

He isn’t uncomfortable, not with Quinn. But he is _so_ confused, and feels so exposed. “Why would you want to look at me?”

Quinn knits his brows, looking up to meet his eyes. He’s quiet for a second, and then he whispers, still smiling, “Because you’re you?”

Nando stills. Quinn moves his hands up to his shoulders, where he rubs his palms against the bare skin there, then down under his arms and around his bare back. His touch is so tender, and Nando likes it so much he almost wants to cry, for some reason. “Sebastián…” Quinn says, slowly. “Are you ashamed?”

God, he feels so _stupid_. He told himself he was going to stop being stupid. “Ashamed of what?”

“The way you look,” Quinn says, and he waits, but Nando’s nonresponse must be a response in itself, because Quinn’s eyes flood with gentle sympathy, and he whispers, “Oh, _honey_.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, immediately and instinctively.

“ _No_ — goodness, no, Sebastián, please don’t apologize.” Quinn scoots up in his lap a little, then moves his palms to rest carefully and comfortably at the front of his belly. Nando takes a deep breath. This is okay. He’s okay. “Do you want to put it back on?”

“No.” This much, he knows. He wants to get over this awful self-consciousness; he wants to see himself the way Quinn sees him.

“Okay,” Quinn says, with a nod, and he takes a gentle pause before he adds, “Sweetheart.”

Nando winces at himself. He hates that he’s being like this. “Yeah?”

“Look at me.” He does. “I know you feel a little self-conscious. But I need you to know that for me, it… it doesn’t matter, honey, okay? I’d like you at any size. I’d still want you— in all the ways— no matter how you looked.”

And, like. They’ve been over this. He _knows_ they’ve been over this. Every time Quinn has touched him somewhere new, they’ve been careful to stay on the same page, to lay out any insecurities or things they want the other to know. And he shouldn’t be acting like this right now, for that reason. Quinn knows. He understands.

“Thank you,” he manages to get out. He feels so pathetic. And what the hell, Quinn should know that. “I feel so… _stupid_.”

“Sebastián. _No_.” Quinn cups his face in one little hand. “Please. Don’t feel stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, either.” Quinn rubs his belly with the other hand. Nando closes his eyes, to take another deep breath. “Can I tell you something?”

He nods, swallows, and opens his eyes again. “Of course.”

Quinn’s words are simple, and yet so unthinkable. “I love the way you look.”

Nando blinks at him. He looks down at himself— big arms, chunky belly, lumbering figure. Always too big, in the past. Always a source of shame. “You…” He looks back up at Quinn, the cutest, most petite thing he’s ever seen. “You do?”

“Of course I do,” Quinn whispers. He pushes at his curls, brushes the spot where they flop at his forehead. “You thought I didn’t?”

“No— no, I just—” He shakes his head. He’s not even sure what he wants to say. “I just. Like. It’s… well, it’s not that I don’t _believe_ you, ‘cause I do, it’s just—” He swallows again, wills himself to chill, and spits it out. “No one has ever loved that about me before.”

Quinn is quiet, and contemplative, for just a second. He tips his head to the side, and the swoopy part of his hair falls with the gesture. Then he straightens again, nods, and presses forward. “That’s their loss,” Quinn whispers. “Because you’re _beautiful_ , honey. You know that, right? And you know I love that you’re big? Not even— like, not even because I’m so short, but just because you’re _you_ , and you’re big and strong and so damn _handsome_ , sweetheart. All the parts of you. You’re beautiful.”

Nando registers a faint tremor in the back of his throat, and realizes abruptly that he might tear up if Quinn keeps talking. He pulls him close to kiss him instead, and when he pulls away, he has to stop himself from saying three words they haven’t ventured toward yet.

But he _does_ say, “I’m so happy that I have you.”

“I’m happy, too,” Quinn whispers. He’s smiling and pressed to his forehead now. Nando really might cry. “I’m the luckiest boy in the whole world.”

Nando is so damn happy, he laughs. He kisses Quinn again, and he’s done not believing. He’s done doubting. He has to believe it, because he _wants_ to love himself. And with Quinn, it feels like that’s something he might one day be able to do.

So he holds him close, and he kisses him, and he lets Quinn touch. He couldn’t think of anyone else seeing him like this, but Quinn is all he needs.

“Here,” Quinn says, between kisses. He pulls off so he can meet his eyes again, then nods down to his chest. “Let me show you?”

“Show me what?” he asks.

“How I feel about it,” Quinn says, then he kisses, just gently, down his neck and toward his chest. “Is this—” He stops to look up. “Okay?”

“It’s so okay,” Nando whispers, and he has never felt more lucky in his entire life.

Quinn kisses him all over, and he doesn’t have a single second thought.


	10. 2021

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Nando and Quinn ring in the new year, physically together, for the first time.  
> [Original prompt: Ok I have no idea where this is coming from but I want to hear about Nando and Quinn's first New Year's Eve together](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/622286456393809920/ok-i-have-no-idea-where-this-is-coming-from-but-i).

_junior year_ | _december/january_

“Gabi! Rosa! Wake up; it’s almost midnight!”

Nando watches, with so much glee that he’s holding back a laugh, as both of his sisters rouse in unison. They sit bolt upright on the basement couch, in two different shades of alarm. Gabi rubs her eyes and makes some kind of half-asleep grunting noise, and Rosa is immediately wide awake. “What?” she cries, flailing her arms in panic. “Did we miss it?”

“No!” Nando replies, and next to him, wrapped up in his arm, Quinn is shaking his head for emphasis.

“You woke up just in time,” Quinn adds, then points to the clock on the basement wall.

Gabi and Rosa both look that way, and Nando holds up his watch, gesturing to its face. “See?” he says. “It’s 11:57.”

Rosa marvels at his watch. “I didn’t know we slept _that_ long…”

“Yeah!” Gabi frowns, with a little _hmph_ , and folds her arms. She’s wearing the nightgown she got for Christmas; it’s lavender, with sugar-plum fairies all over it. “Why didn’t you guys wake us up?”

“Well, we did wake you up,” Quinn points out, evenly. “There are three minutes left to go.”

“I didn’t mean to fall _asleep_ ,” she whines. “I said I was gonna stay up this year!”

“It’s a good thing you have us,” Nando quips, and she sticks her tongue out at him.

Quinn, who is infinitely more patient with Gabi and Rosa than Nando feels like being with his little sisters right now, pats Gabi on the shoulder and remarks, “It’s okay, Gabi. Staying up on New Year’s isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, anyway.”

“But _you’re_ doing it,” Gabi points out.

Quinn tips his head into Nando’s arm, and Nando grins down at him, squeezing him around the shoulders. “I am,” Quinn says, “because I’m with you guys.” He pauses. “I fell asleep before midnight last New Year’s, by accident.”

“It’s true,” Nando says, chuckling, because that really _is_ true— he remembers Quinn’s sleepy face picking up his FaceTime call at midnight last year, rubbing his eyes with a raspy voice over the phone. It was the cutest shit he’s ever seen, not to be dramatic.

Now, a year later, he nudges his boyfriend— who is sitting on his mama’s basement couch, live and in person, his for the entirety of the holidays. The end of Quinn’s fall semester may have been beyond shitty from a home life standpoint, but it led to this: Quinn, home with him, in Arizona, for all of winter break. And summer, once it comes. And the winter break after that, and, well—

Nando loves having him here, more than he can even say.

“Quinn’s a weakling,” he chirps, with eyes on the boy himself. “He’s no good at staying up late.”

Quinn squirms, with a little laugh, and swats upward towards Nando’s general chest region. “ _Sebastián_ ,” he says, easily. Nando kisses his temple.

“Staying up late is _cool_ !” Gabi cries. “Sometimes I use Mama’s phone to text Sebastián when it’s midnight at college, and he’s _still awake_.”

“Mm.” Quinn nods, with his cheek pressed into Nando’s shoulder. “Your brother has a habit of letting Ben have an influence on his bedtime.”

“I mean.” Nando wonders if defending himself is even worth it. Quinn is sort of right. “He lives right on the other side of the bathroom. He, like… invades my room.”

Rosa is studying the wall clock intently. “I’ll tell you guys when,” she announces, like counting down to midnight is a mission she is taking very seriously. “We have a minute and thirty-seven seconds left. Now it’s thirty-six. Thirty-five—”

“Aw, don’t count the _whole_ time,” Gabi says, shoving her in the shoulder. “You’ll kill all the fun.”

“It’s okay, Rosa.” Once again, Quinn seeks to pacify the sisterly disagreements. He’s a natural, Nando notices. It sends him into thoughts of Quinn as a dad, which is so much for his extremely in love, extremely gay brain. “It’ll be midnight soon.”

Nando buries his face in Quinn’s hair to mask his smile, and plants a kiss at the top of his head. With three weeks in the Arizona sun under his belt— because even in the winter, the sun here is aplenty, something Nando will never stop loving about his home state— the usual strawberry tones of Quinn’s blond have lightened significantly. Not only that, but he has more freckles today than the number he showed up with when they stepped off the plane after finals. It’s a good look on him, and Nando hasn’t been able to stop himself from imagining what that means for Quinn if he lives here after graduation.

They’ve talked about that a little, which is plenty for Nando’s brain to run wild with.

“Wait!” Gabi draws something out from between couch pillows. The four of them are all stationed on the basement couch; Nando is resting against the end with his arm around Quinn, and the girls are right where they fell asleep for their accidental nap. It’s a smallish couch, but a comfy one, with a green plush cover that’s easy to sink into.

Gabi brandishes her finding— a silver noisemaker, the cardboard kind you blow into to unfurl it and make a sound. “I forgot about these,” she says.

“Oh, goodness,” Quinn chuckles. “Are you going to blow into that at midnight?”

“Uh, _duh_ ,” Gabi replies. She tests it out once, sort of in his face, and Nando feels Quinn wince under him.

“ _Gabi_.” He huddles Quinn closer. “Remember, his ears aren’t like yours.”

“Oops.” Gabi’s cheeks flush just a little. “Sorry.”

Quinn smiles at her. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I know you’re excited.”

“Thirty seconds!” Rosa cries, eyes still glued to the clock. “When should we start counting?”

“At ten?” Quinn volunteers, and she seems to like this, because she nods.

“At ten,” she echoes. “It’s twenty-five now.”

Gabi bounces on her cushion, which sort of moves the whole couch just a little. “I’m so excited!”

Nando rests his hand on Quinn’s knee, who promptly tips his face up to smile at him. Nando bites back another laugh, and kisses his nose instead. Quinn’s smile is normal, but there’s humor dancing in his blue-green eyes, a little sparkle.

“Twenty!” Rosa, who’s usually pretty quiet, is even seeming excited now. She chews on the edge of her nightgown’s sleeve; it’s the same style as Gabi’s, but with gingerbreads and candies instead of fairies. Her hair is still in the fishtail braid Quinn gave her, while they were watching TV an hour ago. “Fifteen… aaaaand— okay, ten!”

“Nine!” Gabi joins her, bouncing once in her seat for each number. “Eight… seven…”

Nando participates in the countdown, as does Quinn, quietly, next to him. “Six… five… four… three… two… one—”

“ _Happy New Year_!” Gabi and Rosa yell, in unison, and Gabi blows into her noisemaker again, but this time angles it away from Quinn. Nando laughs, finally, and Quinn claps a little, for the girls’ excitement. Gabi jumps off the couch to dance around in front of it, and that’s about when Nando realizes that Quinn is looking up at him expectantly.

“Oh!” In a hurry, he pecks him on the mouth. Quinn is smiling when they pull away.

Gabi finishes her dance with a little bow, which Quinn claps, again, for, and Rosa sits calmly on the couch with both hands in her lap, still staring at the clock as the second hand moves 15 seconds psat 12. “I…” Rosa pauses. “Don’t feel any different.”

“I never do,” Quinn confesses. “New Year’s is an odd holiday, don’t you think?”

“I do think,” Rosa replies, with a nod, and then Gabi lets off a very loud yawn, collapsing back into the abyss of the couch cushions.

“Hm…” Quinn says, looking between them. “Are you guys tired? You stayed up really late.”

Rosa, because yawning is contagious, is also yawning. Nando feels like _he_ might be about to yawn, even though he’s barely tired. “I think so,” she announces, and so, without much ceremony, they’re able to get them to go upstairs relatively easily.

They patter up the basement steps to the ground floor, and they’ll go from there to the second floor, where they’ll nestle all snug in their beds like it’s the night before Christmas and not the night before 2021. “Night, guys,” Nando calls after them, as they’re going. “Happy new year.”

“G’night!” Gabi calls, and Rosa waves over her shoulder. “Don’t stay up late!” Gabi adds, in a singsong voice, and they disappear through the door to the ground floor in a flurry of giggles.

Nando looks to the ceiling, and listens to their feet on the kitchen floor above them, still holding Quinn around the shoulders. He hears them cross to the other staircase, and then, slowly, their steps fade away entirely.

Nando waits at least three seconds after he’s lost track of the noise, then looks down to Quinn, with the shit-eating grin he’s been holding back for the past five minutes finally giving way. “Nice work, baby,” he remarks, holding his hand up.

Quinn laughs. He high-fives him, then leans into his chest. “I feel bad,” he sighs. “They were so excited.”

“ _Pff_.” He stands from the couch, lifting Quinn right up with him, and says, “Are you kidding me? They’ll never know.”

“I suppose.” Quinn hooks his arms around his neck. “Are we resetting the clock?”

“Sure, yeah.” He looks to the clock above the TV. “Let’s do that.”

The same way they did ten minutes ago, he helps Quinn onto his shoulders until he can reach to change the time on the clock. Nando holds him steady as he turns it back two hours, landing it correctly at 10:04 rather than the 12:04 Rosa and Gabi think it is right now. When Quinn is done, he hangs the clock back up, flashes a thumbs-up, and announces, “All set!”

“Perfect.” Nando grins, then reaches for his waist, bends over, and says, “Hold on tight.”

Quinn puts his hands down on his shoulders. “Holding.”

In a maneuver they’ve gotten down to a science, he moves Quinn from his shoulders to his back, where he gets a kiss to the cheek from him on his way by. From there, Quinn hops down, and Nando turns, lifting him so he’s facing him. Quinn winds his legs around his waist, and kisses him properly.

“We’re evil,” Quinn mumbles, nose-to-nose with him, when they pull away. “We lie to children.”

“Baby.” He closes his eyes. “They were never gonna make it to midnight anyway.”

“That’s likely true.” Quinn kisses him again, then eyes the couch, so Nando takes it as a cue to lead him back there. Once they’re settled, Quinn tucks himself right up into his lap, resting his cheek against his shoulder, and all is right in the world.

“What now?” Nando asks, like his mind isn’t already wandering. “You… wanna watch TV?”

“Sure,” Quinn murmurs, “we can turn it on.” He doesn’t sound _opposed_ to it, but he also sounds relatively indifferent, like it doesn’t _really_ matter if the TV is on or not.

So Nando meets his eyes. “We could…” He raises his eyebrows, with the tiniest smile. “ _Not_ watch TV?”

Quinn swats him for the second time in ten minutes. “ _Sebastián_. Your mother said—”

“I know, I know.” He chuckles, kissing Quinn’s forehead. Leave it to his boyfriend to keep Mama’s spirit hovering over them even while she’s safely five miles away at work. She pretty much threatened his life before she left for tonight’s night shift re: funny business in her basement, and he shouldn’t try to go behind her back (despite the multiple times he’s done that during winter break already, at strategic times when they have the house all to themselves). Tonight, Nando won’t tempt fate. He leans toward the empty part of the couch and tells Quinn, “Hold on. I’ll get the remote.”

It’s buried in couch pillows, but he draws it up after a second of rooting around. He looks past Quinn to hit the power button, and flicks through the channels until he lands on the ball drop countdown. Two news anchors are doing shots, live on the air in Times Square. “This?”

Quinn isn’t even facing the TV, but he nods. “Anything’s good.”

So Nando drops the remote down into the cushiony abyss again, securing his hands on Quinn’s tiny waist. He’s in one of his many stolen Kiersey Hockey sweatshirts (this is a really nice one, actually, with his name and number on the sleeve), and a worn pair of blue shorts, which Nando can tell are his own because of how short they are. His socks reach nearly to his knees, and under the sweatshirt, he’s wearing a tight t-shirt that rides up his waist. So in other words, he wants Nando dead. And him being in his lap isn’t helping.

Nando edges his hands under the hoodie until he’s touching warm skin on his middle. He looks down into his eyes and murmurs, “God, you’re fucking cute.”

Quinn giggles like being cute has been his plan this whole time. “You’re not so bad yourself, papi.”

That gets Nando in just the right place, apparently, because the only thing he can think to want to do until midnight is just absolutely kiss the hell out of him. He gives him a kiss that starts soft and turns tender, and Quinn scoots up as far into his lap as he can go. Nando smiles as Quinn presses his thumb into his cheek, and when they pause to breathe, Quinn murmurs, “This is better than TV.”

He laughs, kisses him again, and nods. “Glad you agree, _cariño_.”

More or less, that’s how they pass the next two hours— making out on and off, occasionally sneaking a glance to the TV to comment on the absurdity of how news anchors entertain themselves waiting for midnight to come, trading bits and pieces of miscellaneous conversation. Between bouts of kissing, Quinn rests against his chest, his legs thrown snug around his waist, and Nando rubs his back under the shirt he’s wearing. His skin is a little sunburnt, thanks to his first taste of Arizona weather (and if he’s already burning in December, Nando can’t imagine what it’ll be like when they come home this summer) (which, by the way, is a wonderful thing to remember is happening).

That’s how they are when the countdown arrives— in fact, Nando doesn’t even realize it’s so close to midnight until he sees the TV out of the corner of his eye, and the ball is falling, with forty seconds left until the New Year.

“Oh— baby.” To get his attention, he rubs Quinn’s thigh right under the spot where his shorts end; he’s been holding him there for the last little while.

Quinn lifts his face from his chest; he’s been resting there so long that there’s a warm spot where his head was. On his way up, he turns his hearing aids on, since he shut them off sometime over the course of the past two hours. Nando supplies, “It’s almost midnight.”

Quinn rubs his left eye and asks, in this little, raspy voice, “Already?”

 _God_ , he’s so fucking cute. Nando is too gay to function. “Already,” he says, with an affirming now, and then chuckles a little and adds, “For real this time.”

Quinn laughs, pressing his face into his shoulder, and Nando takes the opportunity to squeeze him tight, with a kiss to the top of his head. His hair is so messy by now, a look he’d never show to the public. Nando loves his rumpled boyfriend more than there are words to express.

“Well,” Quinn mumbles, turning his head to the TV. “Perhaps I should actually watch it.”

Nando holds him close, and he watches, too. He hasn’t seen the ball drop in awhile, because for the past handful of years, he’s usually been at Antonio’s New Year’s party down the street. He and Quinn were invited to it tonight, but Mama had already taken the shift at work, so they gently declined in favor of babysitting the girls.

Nando loves hanging out with his friends, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t prefer this— a snuggly New Year’s Eve in his basement with the love of his life— to a house party.

When the ball hits ten seconds to midnight, the crowd in Times Square ramps up the noise. It’s all flashy and loud, and Nando used to think that going there one year would be fun, as a bucket list kind of thing— but it would be so much for Quinn, he would never do it now. He debates counting along with them, but he just watches and listens instead. Quinn is quiet in his arms, head rested against his shoulder.

_Five… four… three… two… one— happy new year!!!!_

On the TV, a symphony of confetti and cheering erupts. But Nando does not care, at all, what’s happening in Times Square at that moment, because as they ring in the first seconds of 2021, he’s looking down at Quinn. He keeps his eyes on the TV for just a second after the stroke of midnight, before he looks back up to Nando, with a gentle, knowing smile.

Nando tugs him close in his lap to kiss him, and _that’s_ how they ring in 2021— wrapped up in each other with their first official New Year’s kiss. “Happy new year, baby,” he hums, when they pull away.

“Happy new year,” Quinn echoes. He’s cupping Nando’s face in his hand again, and his eyes are searching. “I love you.”

Nando beams. “I love you so much,” he replies, and kisses him again, for good measure. They’re playing Auld Lang Syne on the TV. The noise is a million miles away.

They’ve been together for over two years now, but thanks to the woes of a long-distance relationship, _this_ feels a lot like their first real New Year’s together than the way they rang in 2019 and 2020. Nando wouldn’t change a thing, but FaceTiming at midnight just isn’t the same as holding him in your arms.

So, yeah. Happy new year, indeed.

*

They keep the TV on, and some time later, after more kissing and vigorous snuggling, they wind up just resting on the couch together. Quinn is still wrapped around him, half in his lap and half to his side, and Nando is rubbing very gently at the back of his neck. He thinks Quinn is maybe asleep, or definitely at least not tuned in on his hearing aids, so it comes as a surprise when he hears him mumble. “Sebastián… I was thinking.”

“Huh?” He looks down at him, threading his fingers into his hair. “What about, baby?”

Quinn is quiet while he takes a deep breath, then he snuggles impossibly closer into his chest. “Well, I was just… I wanted to tell you that I love it here.”

Something flutters in Nando’s stomach, but he holds back on saying anything, because Quinn sounded like he wasn’t done with his thought. It turns out he’s right, after a second. “I could completely see myself living here, you know. I mean— of course, I could see myself living here before, because it would be with you, but— well, I suppose _being_ here? It’s made it more real. If you know what I mean?”

“I do know,” he replies, trying not to sound _completely_ like an excited puppy, but probably failing. He can’t help it. They’ve talked about the future, and made clear with each other what they want; they’ve made a plan that fits them accordingly. But Quinn is right. Being home, with him, makes so many future plans so much more real in his head. For two years, he’s daydreamed about taking Quinn home. Now that he’s _done_ that… it’s a lot easier to picture moving here with him, after graduation. And buying their own house. And marrying him. And having a family. And so on.

So, yeah. He gets it. “It makes me really happy to hear you say that,” he tells Quinn.

“Well, it’s the truth,” Quinn remarks, in that little know-it-all voice that Nando is so fucking head over heels for. He pauses a moment, pressing his palm flat against his belly, before he adds, “I can’t wait to live here with you.”

“ _God_ , baby,” he says, and he can’t stop smiling. “I can’t wait for that, either.” He squeezes lightly at the back of his neck. “C’mere.”

Quinn lifts his head for a lazy kiss, and then snuggles right back in. He holds him so close, and that’s how they stay. Going to bed doesn’t even cross either of their radars for a very long time.

Nando wants to ring in every single year, for the rest of his life, just like this.


	11. coming out: quinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next four chapters are little ficlet specials for Pride Month! I was asked to write about the crickets coming out, so here we are. STay tuned for the other three!  
> In which: Quinn comes out to a friend.

_ Quinn _

_ freshman-sophomore summer of high school  _ |  _ june _

Deaf community meetups are some of Quinn’s favorite days of the month.

He supposes maybe it’s a little silly, or sad, that one of the things he most looks forward to socially is an assembly of people who are mostly all grown adults, when he’s fifteen. In fact, what’s perhaps more silly is that he considers some of these adults to be among his closest friends.

But he doesn’t care if it’s silly. Since Oma and Opa started letting him go to these meetups and events, he’s been able to meet and interact with other people  _ like him _ , for practically the first time ever. He doesn’t have to alter himself for these people; he can just be himself. And besides, they aren’t  _ all _ decades older than he is. There’s the little girl, Nevaeh, whose mom brings her, and now that it’s summer, the painfully cute Anders is home again from college. So Quinn isn’t the  _ only _ young person. But even if he were, he wouldn’t care. He gets to see other real, live Deaf people, in person, and that’s the only thing that really matters to him.

Today, Oma drops him off in front of the library at ten on the dot. “I’ll be back at eleven-thirty,” she says, and adds, “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” he replies, then waves as he’s getting out. “Thank you!”

She’s driving off the curb almost before he can get the car door shut behind him. He knows Oma isn’t the biggest fan of having to drive him to the library every other Saturday, but he begged and begged at the start of this past school year.  _ I’m in high school now,  _ he said, time and again.  _ I don’t want to go to parties or sports games. I just want this one thing. _

He must have won them over, because now, nine months later, he’s been an active attendee of these meetups all year long.

As Oma pulls off the curb, he turns off his hearing aids. (That’s always one of the best parts.) It’s sunny and warm, a surefire sign summer has arrived. He can’t wait for school to end, so summer theatre can start. As a high schooler, he’s finally old enough to work with the GR Summer Players.

The library is air-conditioned, and there’s a sign pointing him to the function room, a circular space off the youth section that the group rents out every other Saturday morning. He can already see it’s crowded, and there, and when he opens the door and walks in, Luisa, one of the organizers, smiles at him.  _ Welcome, Quinn,  _ she signs, as he’s telling her hello.  _ We have donuts at the back table,  _ she adds, pointing that way as she finishes.

_ Thank you _ , he signs, and heads that way. There are tables set up all over, full of familiar faces he swaps smiles with as he passes. When he reaches the back, he realizes that Luisa made quite the understatement; it’s true that there are donuts, but there’s also coffee, several types of juice and water, some fruit, and a plate of blueberry muffins that look homemade. They’re probably Carol’s doing; she bakes for many a meetup. His stomach growls at the sight, so he takes a muffin on a paper plate and a mini bottle of water.

As he’s turning around, though, he nearly bumps into someone— and oh,  _ goodness _ , of course it’s Anders. Tall and handsome, with dirty blond hair and green eyes, he’s much too old for Quinn, at twenty, and almost certainly straight even if he weren’t, but  _ Lord _ , is he cute.

_ Sorry _ , Anders signs, and then, with a friendly grin,  _ Hi, Quinn.  _ Except he doesn’t sign  _ Quinn _ ; he makes the sign for  _ scarf _ and turns his right hand into the letter Q on his way around. Luisa addressed him the same way; it’s his sign name, that they all gave him within his first few appearances at group meetups. Everyone has one.

He puts down his food, so his hands aren’t fully, and prays he isn’t blushing.  _ Hello, Anders.  _ Anders’ sign name is ‘soccer’, mixed with an A, since he’s on his college’s team.  _ How are you? _

_ I’m great _ , he replies, all smiles.  _ I’m glad that I’m home. _

Thankfully for Quinn’s fluster, their conversation is brief, because Anders, like he is, is only at the table to get food. When they’ve parted, Quinn catches sight of his favorite person to see at meetups, Grace, at one of the tables. Grace is an elderly woman, Deaf since birth, with whom Quinn has bonded over their mutual affinity for sewing and Grace’s many photos of her cats.

Quinn approaches her table. Grace has deep brown skin and short, curly, gray hair, and she’s wearing a vest today that catches his eye as he sits. For one, it’s a nice vest, vintage-looking, but what’s far more intriguing is the host of patches on it.

She gives him a warm smile.  _ Good morning, Quinn _ , she signs. Like Luisa and Anders, she uses his sign name.  _ How are you today? _

_ I’m doing well _ , he replies, and wonders if it’s rude to be staring at someone’s vest. The patches, though— they make him warm inside. There’s a black one in the shape of a fist, which he knows is a symbol of racial justice, and there’s another one that’s a cartoon cat’s face, and a few others mixed around the two that are  _ really _ catching his eye. They’re two circles, one with stripes in various shades of pink— the lesbian pride flag— and the other just the classic rainbow, with the brown and black stripe added.

He looks up at her and signs,  _ I like your patches. _

_ Thank you _ . Grace is smiling.  _ I made them myself. _

_ Oh, my gosh!  _ He knew she was good at sewing, but these are so detailed— they must have taken hours. He’s far too amateur to do something like that, right now.  _ They’re wonderful. They must have taken awhile. _

_ They did.  _ She pauses to take a sip of her tomato juice, which is a very elderly-person thing to drink, but then again, Grace is at least seventy.  _ I’m wearing them today, _ she adds, once she’s put her cup back down,  _ because it’s June, which means it’s Pride Month. _

The warmth inside Quinn grows, and he feels himself smiling widely at her, as he nods. Of course, he knew this— has known this, for a few years now, ever since he became sure about himself and started doing research. But he also doesn’t get the chance to interact with that many people in his day-to-day life who are, well… not straight.

He didn’t know that Grace wasn’t, but he does know that she lives alone. He wonders if it would be rude to ask. Before he can figure out how to ask, she signs,  _ Did you know that I had a wife? _

He did  _ not _ know this.  _ You did? _

_ Yes.  _ Grace nods, with a smile, and continues,  _ She’s passed on now, but we were together for twenty years. _

_ Oh, goodness. I’m sorry to hear that. _

_ Don’t be.  _ Grace rests her hand, briefly, on his shoulder, and then smiles again.  _ She was happy. _

Quinn looks at her, for a moment. How has he been talking to Grace biweekly for almost nine months, and never knew she wasn’t straight? Nevermind the fact alone that she’s a lesbian— she’s a  _ Deaf _ lesbian. It’s like double comfort. He’s certainly never met another Deaf LGBT person before.

And now that he’s sitting in front of her, with this information newly retained, he wants  _ her  _ to know something, about himself.  _ May I tell you something? _

_ Of course you can. _

He takes a deep breath before he makes the sign. He’s done it by himself, with no one around— a test to see how it felt to sign, after he came to terms with the truth— but never facing anyone else.  _ I’m gay. _

Grace’s smile is automatic, and the surge of relief that washes through him is indescribable.  _ Thank you for telling me that _ , she signs.

_ You’re the first person I’ve told _ , he says. The thought of most people in his life knowing that fact is terrifying, especially Oma and Opa, but here, at this table, with Grace, feels like a safe place to be. A safe place to say it, to talk about it.

Grace puts her hand over her heart before she tells him,  _ It’s safe with me. _

_ Thank you.  _ He can’t stop smiling. It feels beyond good to know that at least one other person in the world knows his secret.

Grace pats the rainbow patch on her vest, then asks,  _ Would you like one of these pride patches? I can make you one. _

He gives her a sheepish smile, because that sounds like a lovely thing to own, but…  _ I’m not sure my grandparents would be thrilled if they found one on me. _

Grace winks.  _ It can be our little secret _ , she says.  _ I could even teach you to make them, sometime, if you wanted. _

He likes the idea of them having a secret. Like they’re in some kind of small, Deaf LGBT club.  _ I would love that. _

Grace drinks her tomato juice again, and he takes a bite out of the muffin. Yes… it’s definitely Carol’s baking. He’s been to enough meetings that he can identify it, which maybe says a lot about how comfortable he’s growing here.

He’s so, so glad he convinced Oma and Opa to let him start coming to these.

_ Quinn _ , Grace signs, after they’ve sat in the comfortable lull in conversation for a moment.  _ Would you like to come over to my house for tea sometime? _

It’s an invitation so kind, it takes him a moment to respond. His face is warm, and he’s probably pink in the cheeks, but not embarrassed by a long shot.  _ I would love to _ , he tells her.  _ That’s so kind of you. _

From then on out, his best friend is a seventy-five-year-old woman.


	12. coming out: nando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of four of the cricket coming-out ficlets! A few things for this one. First, a content warning. If you aren't familiar with Nando's backstory, he loses his papa to terminal cancer while he's in high school, and this ficlet deals VERY heavily with that grief, given that it's set only about three weeks after his papa dies. If that might be triggering for you, I would skip out on this one. Otherwise, have some hurt/comfort featuring Maria Hernandez being a very good mom.  
> Also, in this ficlet, Nando and his mom will be talking with each other, and: although I’m writing their dialogue in English, they speak Spanish to each other. It just wouldn’t make sense to have an entire conversation of Spanish dialogue in an otherwise English fic.  
> In which: Nando comes out to his mom.

_ Nando _

_ senior year of high school  _ |  _ march _

Papa has been gone for three weeks and four days, and it’s felt like a lifetime.

Sebastián never wants to see another bouquet of flowers again. Or another stupid overly emotional greeting card. And he’s so tired of all the food people have sent them that he’s starting to resent the way an enchilada tastes. Imagine that, being tired of enchiladas. A month or two ago, he never could have imagined it. But in the past few weeks, everything has changed.

The sun still shines, but the world is gray. He missed a week of school, and then went back, because the alternative to being at school was sitting at home in his room doing nothing but  _ thinking _ about all of it, and that wound up being almost worse than the idea of sitting in a classroom. He hasn’t retained an ounce of what they’ve taught him since, but it’s not like he was doing much retaining  _ before _ Papa died, either; his mind was always elsewhere, on the hospital and the treatment and the way everything at home always felt so fucking  _ sad _ .

And, like,  _ God _ , he knows that Papa was a happy man, that he lived a good life. And he knows that they had plenty of time to prepare for this, that his parents fully saw it coming, and the doctors did too. Even  _ he _ had convinced himself that he saw it coming. He thought he was ready for this. The number of times he condescendingly explained to his sisters how sick Papa really was feels shameful now.

Because as much as he tried to convince himself he was ready, nothing could have  _ really _ prepared him for the overwhelming, crushing, empty reality that is life knowing Papa is gone.

So here he is. On a cloudy Friday night. Crying in his room.

He didn’t start out crying. He got home from school pretty unceremoniously, after picking his sisters up, and went up to his room to unpack his backpack for the weekend. Gabi and Rosa went to the basement to watch their cartoons, which Mama would never have let them do in the middle of the afternoon on a regular day, but she’s gotten pretty lax about TV rules these past few weeks. Sebastián has watched more reruns of  _ Wheel of Fortune  _ and  _ Jeopardy!  _ than he cares to see for the rest of his life. That’s another thing he’s tired of. TV shows.

So he goes to his room, and turns on his music, and lays in bed, and that’s when he cries. He feels like his tear ducts should have dried out weeks ago. Even Mama hasn’t cried as much as he has— well, at least, as far as he knows. He’s trying so hard to be there for her, but he knows she’s trying just as hard to be strong for him and his sisters.

And he just hasn’t been able to stop fucking  _ crying _ . The grief is eating him alive.

He’s been in his room for at least an hour, he thinks. Mama will be home soon, from work, and they’ll have some pre-made thing for dinner out of the seemingly hundreds in the garage fridge, and they’ll watch bad TV and go to bed early, just like they’ve done every night since the funeral. He has a text from Nate in his lockscreen, because he wants to do something this weekend, and, like, Sebastián  _ knows  _ he’s been a pretty shitty boyfriend for the past couple of weeks, but he can’t find it in him to even open the message right now. The thought of Nate brings him cycling back to  _ other  _ sources of despair, things that have to do with Papa but not just with the sickness.

Like… how Sebastián never came out to him. Which,  _ God _ , he fucking should have. But every time he felt the urge to tell him, it was always at a bad time, or there were other people around, or he felt like he would burden Papa with such a hefty confession. He remembers this one night, ten days before he died, when he was sitting by his hospital bed while Mama was out with the girls getting takeout to bring back. It was just the two of them, and they weren’t even talking about anything to do with it— in fact, they were talking about college hockey, which feels like such a huge decision and he knows he’s going to have to make it so soon— but he just remembers this urge, out of nowhere, coming to him. To tell Papa. To just open his mouth and say the two stupid words.  _ I’m gay _ . Then they would be out there, and Papa would know, and who knows how he would have taken it but at least he would have been able to say he wasn’t hiding from him.

But he looked at him, right as he thought he might be able to say it, and took in the sight of his paled face and the tubes up his nose and all the machines he was hooked up to, and he couldn’t do it. How could he have told Papa, who was so sick, something so huge, just so he could say he did? It would have been selfish. Papa had a lot bigger things to worry about, that night, than his son’s sexualtiy.

So he didn’t tell him that night, or the next, or the next, or any other night, and then he died, and now he’ll never get the chance.

And so he’s crying. And that’s how Mama finds him, when she gets home from work.

“Sebastián.” Her voice is gentle, though absent of anything all too happy. He lifts his head from his pillow, to find her in his bedroom doorway, in her scrubs. “Have you been in here since you got home?”

He sniffles a little, and wipes his face. He feels so fucking useless. “Where else is there to go?”

Mama sighs, just faintly, and then walks into his room. The sight of her makes him want to burst into tears all over again— Mama is working so  _ hard _ to keep this family together right now, and it’s not as if they’d move apart from each other without her, but he still has no idea where he’d be right now if it weren’t for her support. And he can only imagine what that means for how  _ tired _ she must be.

She sits on the edge of his bed and rubs his back. “Can I get you something?” she asks. “We could make hot chocolate.”

It’s just an offer, an extension of comfort, but it sends him into a memory, because the hot chocolate recipe in their family has always been Papa’s. He’d make it on particularly cold days in the winter months, even when Sebastián was little. It was his favorite. Still is.

He wonders if it’ll ever taste the same.

“No, thanks,” he replies, then tries wiping his face again. He sits up straight, casting his phone under his pillow, and runs his hands through his hair. It’s all knotted and gross; he should maybe shower. “I’m okay.”

“Well,” Mama says, turning to face him on the mattress, “are you going to come downstairs tonight?” She pauses. “I think your sisters would like to spend time with you.”

He knows she doesn’t mean it to guilt-trip him, but he feels guilty anyway. He’s been a bad brother lately. A bad son. A bad boyfriend—  _ God _ , a bad everything.

When he meets Mama’s eyes, the thought hits him out of nowhere.  _ Tell her. _ It’s a small voice in the back of his mind, but it’s the exact same urge that hit him with Papa weeks ago. And  _ that _ is enough to make him cry, all over again, a sniffle followed by fresh tears in the tracks already on his cheeks.

“Mama?” He can’t keep this bottled up anymore. “I— there’s something I need to tell you?”

In an instant, Mama’s hand is on his back, a comforting touch to keep himself rooted to. “Of course,” she says, very evenly. “Tell me,  _ mijo _ . It’s alright.”

He wonders if she knows. He thinks there’s no way she could. But Papa will never know, and he owes it to at least one of his parents to be honest. He can’t keep this guilt inside of him any longer.

He sniffles, this big, ugly sound, and wipes his face with the back of his hand. He tries to look at her while he says it, but chickens out and looks straight across his bedroom instead. “I— well, I—”

It’s hard to get out. How many times has he imagined how this interaction would go, with his parents, and now it’s just happening because Mama caught him crying over his dead papa in his bedroom? “It’s just—” He has to just spit it out. He hides his face in his hands, because he can’t look. “I’m gay?”

The roof does not collapse on him. Mama does not yell. She doesn’t even take her hand off his back. It’s quiet in his bedroom for about two seconds— the longest two seconds of his life— before she murmurs, “Sebastián.”

That’s it. Just Sebastián. Nothing else.  _ God _ , he’s an idiot. He shouldn’t have told her now. If Mama takes this badly, he’ll have lost both his parents in a month. And what a time to burden her with this—

He feels another sob coming on, and he can’t bear to look away from her, like some kind of coward, any longer. So he looks up, and she doesn’t look disgusted or angry or even  _ surprised _ , but he can’t help himself when he adds, “And I— I’m sorry I’m saying so now—” His voice catches in his throat. “I’m sorry, Mama, I just— I never told Papa, and it’s been— it’s been eating me up inside, and I hope it doesn’t make you hate me, or—”

“Sebastián.” Her voice is more firm now, but there isn’t an ounce of anything upset in it. It cuts off his frenzy of overthinking, and his jumble of words.

Mama opens her arms. “Please,” she says. “Come here.”

He falls into her embrace, and holds on tight, and cries into her shoulder. He feels about five years old, helpless, in his mama’s arms. But she isn’t rejecting him, and she isn’t hating him; she’s  _ holding _ him, and he thinks maybe this means he isn’t going to lose her.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to get out, with his face pressed into the shoulder of her scrubs, staining tears on their plain dark blue fabric. “I’m sorry, Mama— I—”

“ _ Shhh _ .” She smooths his hair, right at the part where it’s all matted. He thinks, despite all the size he has on her, that she’s the only thing right now keeping him steady at all. “You don’t have to be sorry,  _ mijo _ .”

So he stops apologizing, but he can’t stop fucking  _ crying _ . She lets him cry, for a minute more, and when he can breathe again, but the tears haven’t dried, Mama pulls back to look at him.

Just the look in her eyes, the motherly warmth he knows so well tinged with the grief he knows will never truly go away now, is enough to make him well up again.

She knows, he reminds himself. She knows, and she isn’t angry.

“Sebastián,” she says. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

He sputters a little, with his tears, but forces himself to nod through them.

“And your papa loved you,” she adds. “And nothing you told him could have made him love you any less. He  _ always _ loved you, and he always will, okay? I need you to understand that.” It takes him until right then to realize something that pains him even more than this entire conversation has— which is that  _ Mama _ , too, has tears in her eyes. She cried at the funeral, but the times he’s seen her cry aside from that are so few and far between that this observation hurts more than most things have yet.

“This— this is okay,” Mama says, and he can tell she’s trying so hard to keep it together;  _ God _ , he fucking hates himself for making her cry. “You never have to be sorry, alright? I promise you, it’s okay. And I love you. I’ll always love you. Nothing will change.”

He sniffles, and his head hurts, and his cheeks feel like they’ll be permanently wet. “I’m sorry I made you cry,” he says, and his voice comes out so shaky.

Mama shakes her head. She pulls him into a hug again, and they both cry.

He  _ hates _ the way everything feels right now, but Mama is the sign that life might, someday, get a little better. Even if it’s one tiny thing at a time.

She doesn’t hate him. He likes to think that Papa wouldn’t hate him, either.

But it’s all too much right now, so he holds on tight to Mama and doesn’t let go for a long time.


	13. coming out: ben

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three of the coming out series! Remember Gina From Rhode Island?  
> In which: Ben comes out to a girlfriend.

_Ben_

_freshman year_ | _december_

For someone who doesn’t do committed relationships, Ben is, like, pretty good at planning dates.

Okay, well. It’s not like he’s _never_ been in a committed relationship. And actually, putting it that way makes it sound like he has some kind of commitment issue. He doesn’t. He just isn’t looking for anything serious right now, and hasn’t ever been, yet, in life as a general rule. Which is okay. Because that’s what works for him, and anyone who doesn’t like it definitely isn’t meant to be with him.

So anyway. He’s going on a date today. But he and his date are pretty much on the same page about the fact that it’s mostly a casual event.

And yeah. He’s good at planning dates.

Campus is all decorated for the holidays, which includes string lights on a bunch of the trees, and themed decorations in the public buildings, like the wreath on the wall at the dining hall or the menorah in the bigass window in the student center. Tonight, it’s snowing, which, honestly, just adds to his nice holiday date setting. All in all, he’s pleased with his planning skills, as he sends a text and waits outside Gina’s dorm.

She comes down and out of the building within three minutes, which is honestly impressive, because girls tend to take awhile. She looks cute, because she’s cute. Her knit winter hat, with a big pom-pom, is off-white and kind of huge; it looks comfy. Her winter jacket is red, and she has both hands tucked into her pockets as she walks down the snowy sidewalk to meet him. “Hey,” she calls, with a little wave.

He grins. “Hi.” Outstretching a hand, he greets her with a kiss on the cheek. “You look nice.”

“Thank you!” She unpockets her hand to take his, and then smiles at the sky. “I had no idea it was snowing.”

“It’s so aesthetic,” he remarks, tipping his head up towards the clouds. With a little wag of his eyebrows, he adds, “Actually, I ordered up the snow.”

“Oh,” Gina laughs, “did you? Just… Jack Frost on speed dial?”

“Santa Claus, actually,” he replies, while she laughs some more. She has a nice laugh. “He’s on my list of liaisons for holiday magic.”

“Wow, impressive.” She nods, as they walk down the steps from her dorm and onto the main pathway across the quad. The quad itself is snow-covered, and there’s a dusting on the sidewalk itself already, but they won’t be outside for long. “Do you also have the Easter Bunny?”

“Of course I do.” He winks at her. “Peter Cottontail and I go way back.”

She laughs again, and tucks a strand of her straight, brown hair behind her ear and under the hat. Then she looks to him, squinting a little, not exactly eyeing his face but more the top of his head. “What’s on your…” She pauses. “Is that, like, a holly-print scrunchie?”

“Oh, yeah.” He pats where it’s holding up his bun. “Emma got me a pack of them last Christmas. I have this, one with gingerbread men, a shiny gold reindeer-print one… uhh, one with snowflakes…”

“Your scrunchie supply is endless,” she marvels. “I’m low-key jealous.”

“You should be high-key jealous.” He squeezes her hand, just to test it out, and she squeezes back right away. A good sign. They’re off to a good start. “I’m very proud of my scrunchie collection.”

“Well, something’s gotta hold your hair up.”

“Very true.” Especially tonight— because it’s not like he’d ever leave his room without his hair up, but they’re doing physical activity on this date, so having it out of his face felt particularly necessary. Meelia Arena hosts this annual holiday free skate night which, according to Parker, is great date-night material. He shot Gina a text earlier this week asking if she wanted to go, and she said yes right away. He wonders, actually, as they walk in the direction of Faber, if they’ll see Parker there, with his boyfriend.

Well, anyway. It’s a good holiday date idea.

“So how are you?” she asks, as they walk. “How’s your day?”

He tells her, and they talk along the sidewalk. This is their third time hanging out after they met at a party last month. He honestly had no idea Gina even _went_ to Kiersey, which is poor form, because she’s the sister of one of his childhood hockey friends, and he certainly should have been able to figure it out easily enough through, like, Instagram or something. Also, she lives literally five minutes away from him in Providence. He’s honestly surprised that it took them this long to run into each other on campus, but leave it to Nando to set him up on the coincidentally funniest date of his life.

So anyway. Their unintentional party date went well. And they decided they wanted to hang out again, so they got coffee one morning before Thanksgiving break. Then they hung out at home in Providence over the actual break. And now they’re here. Going on a skating date.

He would not be opposed to dating Gina Amacetti. As it turns out, she’s great company.

“Hey,” she asks, as they’re nearing Meelia, “can I ask something?”

He looks to her. There’s snow in her hair, or at least the parts of it that aren’t covered by her pom-pom hat, and her cheeks are a little rosy. “Sure,” he replies, and wonders if he’s grinning like a dumbass. He can’t help it. She’s cute! She always has been, but now that they’re, like, involved or whatever, it feels extra obvious. “Ask away.”

“Are we, like…” She’s smiling, with this look in her eyes Ben can’t quite make out. It’s almost mischievous, or maybe just curious. “Are we official?”

It’s like she read his mind. He knows he’s _definitely_ grinning like a dumbass now. He hasn’t really been ‘dating’ someone since junior year of high school, and even though he knows he doesn’t want a super long-term thing, it still feels nice, because he likes Gina. So he asks, “Do you want to be?”

She presses her lips together, still smiling, and nods a few times, like it’s this fun little secret.

“Cool.” He pauses, then squeezes her hand. “Me, too.”

And he officially has his first college girlfriend.

It isn’t until Meelia is in sight that he realizes that there’s maybe something small he should bring up, if she really is going to be his girlfriend. “Wait, uh… Gi?”

She looks his way, swinging their hands together. “Yeah?”

“There’s something you should know.” He pauses. “Like, if we’re dating.”

“Oh, cool! Okay.” She doesn’t look nervous, but then again, she has no idea what he’s about to say. Not that _he’s_ nervous. This isn’t difficult; it’s just uncharted territory with her specifically.

“I’m queer,” he tells her. “Like, I’m pan? And if you’re not cool with that, we definitely shouldn’t date.”

Thank God, her smile doesn’t fade. Instead, she just goes, “ _Pff_ . Ben, that doesn’t matter. Or, it _matters_. It just doesn’t change the fact that I like you.”

“Oh.” He grins. “Oh, sweet. Alright.”

“I have friends who are gay, y’know,” she adds. “And also… it’s not that hard to figure out there’s something non-heterosexual about you.”

He arches an eyebrow at her. “I’m flattered by that, so if you meant it to be offensive, it didn’t work.”

Gina rolls her eyes, with another laugh into the snowy sky. “I definitely _didn’t_ mean that.”

This is a relief. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but Gina comes from a family a lot like his, and his isn’t the most notoriously accepting group of people. It’s why he isn’t out to them yet. Not that he _needed_ Gina’s validation, but it would have sort of sucked if she turned out to be a bigot. “Thanks for being chill about it,” he tells her. “I thought— like, you’re a good Catholic girl.”

She snorts. “And you’re a good Catholic boy, by that logic.”

He can’t help it. He smiles again. “Takes one to know one,” he chirps.

They reach the front doors of Meelia, and he pulls it open for her, like a good date. She smiles as she’s going through it, and they enter the rink to the sound of Mariah Carey and decoration straight out of a winter wonderland.

 _Nice._ This looks like it’ll be fun.

He’s having a good day.

“I bet I can beat you in a race,” Gina says, as they take in the scene.

“Oh.” That sounds like a challenge. “You’re fucking _on_.”


	14. coming out: remy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally! Last one for the coming out series. Like the Nando ficlet from two chapters ago, the dialogue in this one is in a different language than I'm writing it. Remy and his parents speak French.  
> In which: Remy comes out to his parents.

_Remy_

_two years after graduation_ | _may_

Remy thought that the NHL would save him from certain kinds of conversations with his parents.

Well. Mainly one kind. The ‘when are you going to settle down’ conversation. He thought he would be free of those uncomfortable questions, at least for a little while. But no. Apparently, nothing will rid him of his parents’ ardent desire for him to settle down and find a girl already. Because that’s what life is about. Even if you’re living out your childhood dream.

_Euh._

Knocked out of the playoffs in the conference finals, he’s home for a long-overdue visit. He thought it would be nice to take Maman and Papa out to a nice dinner, at that restaurant they love in Old Quebec but were never able to afford all that often when he was growing up. So he has them dress up, and they walk because it’s nice out, and he doesn’t say where they’re going until they’ve reached the front doors.

It’s a nice place, and he loves it here, and he’s set to just enjoy a meal when they start pulling out the dreaded questions.

At least, if it is any consolation at all, they wait until they put the appetizer order in.

“Remy,” Maman says, gently. “Have you been seeing anybody lately?”

She asks it like an old-fashioned housewife would ask if her husband, long since lost at sea, has been found. In other words, she’s clinging onto hope that no longer exists. Never existed. Remy sighs and adjusts the napkin, in his lap on his dress pants.

“No, maman,” he replies, with a shake of his head. “Just me.”

“It’s got to get lonely,” Papa points out. “All by yourself, in your apartment all the time?”

It doesn’t. Well. _Mostly_ it doesn’t. Even two years removed, he misses college, misses the constant presence of his friends all in one place, a walk across the hall away. He especially misses Ben, even though they FaceTime pretty regularly. When your best friend is literally across the country, doing his own non-pro-sports career stuff, you can occasionally get nostalgic for the good old Kiersey days. But a.) he’s never had a problem with being alone, and b.) he loves his apartment, and c.) he loves Vancouver, and finally, d.) he’s going to Providence to see Ben in two weeks anyway.

And besides, none of that is relevant, because Maman and Papa don’t mean loneliness in the sense of missing his friends. They mean the distinct lack of a female companion.

They’ve been asking him this for literally years. His answer never changes.

“I’m whole on my own,” he replies, and his parents look so discouraged. He almost feels like he’s disappointing them, but then again, he can’t change the way he is. Wouldn’t if he could. “And I’m _not_ lonely, Papa. I promise. I see the team all the time, after all.”

“Remy.” There’s a little sadness in Maman’s eyes. “We just don’t want to see you live all your life without anyone to share it with.”

“I know, Maman.” _Euh._ He wonders if he should just tell them the truth. It doesn’t feel like the worst idea, even if he’s sure they wouldn’t understand. “I promise, I’m okay. I’m really happy.”

He _is_ happy. He can’t see himself staying in Vancouver for the rest of his career, but it’s working for him right now. And he wishes his parents could see that.

“Besides,” he adds, because maybe it’ll help. “I’ll see my friends this summer. I’m going to Providence, remember? And I think I’ll try to get to Arizona before preseason starts up again, too.”

Maman exchanges a look with Papa, and for a moment, they’re both quiet. There’s not exactly disapproval in their eyes, maybe more just… worry. He wonders if they’re doing that thing married couples do, where they talk without the words.

They must be. Because a moment more, and they turn back to him. “Remy,” Papa says, in that same gentle voice of parental concern. “We need to say something to you.”

His stomach knots, a little. They look serious. Still not outwardly upset, and definitely not angry, but serious. He nods. “Alright,” he replies.

They look at each other again, then Maman reaches across the table for his hand. Hers is cold, when it lands on top of his, and she squeezes his palm. “ _Bonheur_ ,” she says. “We want you to know… we both love you, no matter what.”

He furrows his brow and looks between them. It feels like the precursor to something, like they think he has some big confession for them. Like… oh.

Like they think he’s…

“It’s okay,” Papa adds, “if you’re gay. You know that, don’t you?”

 _Oh_ . Oh, boy. “Papa—” He shakes his head. “Maman. No. I’m not gay.” He almost laughs, looking between them again. “I’m _definitely_ not gay.”

“It’s okay if you are,” Maman replies, like she didn’t even hear him. “We’ll always support you.”

Papa adds, “If you and Ben…”

“Oh— _oh_ , no, never.” It isn’t the first time someone has assumed he and Ben are more than best friends, and he’s pretty sure it won’t be the last. He just never really expected this assumption from his own parents. “No, I— look, can I tell _you_ something?”

They nod. There’s so much anticipation in each of their expressions; he can only hope the explanation he gives is enough for them.

“I’m asexual,” he says, and he’s said it out loud before, but to them, it feels a bit more serious of a statement. “And aromantic. It means I’m not interested in being with anybody. Girl or guy or anyone else besides that.”

He hunts for a reaction in their faces. All he finds is confusion.

“Alright,” says a voice, and it takes Remy right up until then to realize that the waiter has arrived, with their appetizers. “I have a cheese board?”

Maman hurries to make room on the table. “Thank you,” she says to the waiter. “Right here.”

It breaks up the conversation, but as the waiter walks away, Remy feels the shroud of something borderline awkward fall upon the table. His parents don’t look _upset_ , not at all. But they still look confused.

“Remy,” Maman says. “I don’t think you’ve found the right person yet.”

 _Oof._ That hurts, like a little hit to the gut. He’s heard this before, and he was holding onto hope that his parents wouldn’t react like that. He guesses it’s not the worst thing that they could say, but it’s also not the best.

What’s worse is that they don’t talk about it again. For the rest of dinner.

But at least they get a nice meal out of it, and Remy resolves that he’ll deal with the rest some other time.


	15. take a walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Oh, this will be quick!  
> *5k words later*  
> Me: ......  
> Anyway, by request, in which: Nando’s little sister is getting married. (Remember several chapters ago, when Quinn took her to the fabric store?? Also, meet Nando and Quinn’s children.)  
> [ Original prompt: If you wrote a fic about Nando walking either of his sisters down the aisle I would cry a lot.](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/624253503216517120/if-you-wrote-a-fic-about-nando-walking-either-of)

_twelve years after graduation_ | _april_

  
Sebastián has an alarm set, but he wakes up before it goes off.

The first hints of sunrise catch him in the eye from through the window, as he comes to. In sleep, as frequently happens, Quinn has wound up laying almost completely on top of him, which is nice, actually, because it’s a big, snuggly tangle. More often than not, Quinn is holding onto him in one way or another when they go to bed— except on some of the hottest summer days, when, despite the A/C unit in the house, they can’t seem to cool off for the life of them, and even then they often wind up waking up sweaty and tangled. Sebastián knows he has a tendency to move around in his sleep. Like, a lot. He just also knows his husband is the world’s deepest sleeper.

So it’s not a problem. It’s never been a problem; it wasn’t even a problem in college, when they shared a twin bed most nights in the school year and he woke up with Quinn completely pressed beneath him more times than he can count. Nor is it a problem this morning, when, after laying awake and looking at the ceiling for a few hazy moments while he comes to, he presses a kiss to Quinn’s temple and then gently moves him off of his belly. Quinn makes a little noise in his sleep, but he does that all the time, and otherwise does not stir.

He rolls over in bed, and a quick glance to his alarm clock tells him it’s 7:11. Which isn’t that early, and he doesn’t _have_ to be awake right now, but now that he is, he knows he isn’t falling back asleep. So he might as well get a jump start on breakfast, and let the rest of the family sleep in.

He sits up in bed, and takes a moment to look down at Quinn. He’s in an old, worn t-shirt from college, which definitely didn’t belong to him based on how big it is on him, and he’s pressed his cheek into the pillow in his sleepy state, breathing peacefully, hair a bed-headed strawberry mess. Sebastián smiles, because he can’t help but smile. Today may make him feel old— like, _incredibly_ old— but sixteen years with Quinn, with eight of them married to him, and the same softness blooms in his chest every time he wakes up with him, like it’s the first morning they spent together all over again.

He kisses Quinn’s cheek one more time before he gets out of bed. He’s a sap, and he does not care in the slightest. He’ll be a sap all of his days, and he’s completely happy being that way.

But seriously, he _does_ feel old. Like, his _little sister_ , who in some ways, though twenty-four, is still a little kid through his eyes, is getting _married_ today. He always thought Gabi would get married first, but Rosa has beaten her to it.

He’s not emotionally prepared for what the day holds, but at the same time, he doesn’t think he could be more excited.

He slides his wedding band onto his finger, tugs a shirt over his head, and brushes his teeth, before he heads out into the kitchen and starts on breakfast.

*

Diego proposed to Rosa last spring, on a Sunday.

Sebastián knew it was coming, because of a conversation he and Mama had with Diego two months before that. Diego asked them to lunch at Tio’s on a random Saturday, while Rosa was working. Upon the invitation, Sebastián had the slightest hunch that it might have something to do with marriage— after all, he and Rosa were high school sweethearts, almost seven years together by then, both done with school, ready to start their lives. But despite his prior suspicions, Sebastián still wound up tearing up when Diego looked across the table at him and Mama and said he wanted to ask his little sister to marry him.

They had talked, Sebastián guesses, ahead of time about how Rosa would want to get engaged, and she’d said she would be okay with it happening in front of people as long as the people were just her family. That’s how Diego wound up proposing to her on Mama’s back patio, after Sunday dinner. Rosa cried. Mama also cried. Sebastián shed a few tears, too, but they were in the privacy of his bedroom, alone with Quinn, later that night. _I can’t believe they’re growing up so fast_ , he’d said.

Quinn had chuckled and pressed his forehead against his, so gently. _I know, honey._ He’d kissed his nose. _I can’t believe it, either._

Mia was five, last year, and she’d lost her mind. _Tia Rosa, you’re getting MARRIED to Diego??? When???? Can I come??_ The day Rosa asked her to be the flower girl, she ran around the kitchen shouting about it like she’d won a million dollars.

Sebastián had _also_ cried, then.

They set the date on the calendar for April, of the following year, and today, the day has arrived.

*

Max is the next one up, and Sebastián is whisking eggs when it happens, with Dante curled up in a big, black, fluffy heap near his feet on the ground. The baby monitor is on the counter; he brings it with him, most days, when he’s the first one awake and he’s going to be cooking.

Dante actually must notice the noise coming from the monitor before he does, because he lifts his head up, looking in that direction. “What’s up, boy?” Sebastián glances down at him; his ears are perked up. Then, faintly, he hears it— little murmurs, coming from the monitor, a surefire sign Max is coming to. “Aw, you’re right,” he mumbles, bending over to ruffle Dante’s ears. “Maxy’s up.”

It’s no surprise. Dante and Max have been attached at the hip since the day he and Quinn brought Max and Mia home. The first word he ever heard Max say was _perrito, perrito, perrito_ — _puppy, puppy, puppy_ , over and over, as he caught sight of Dante for the first time.

Sebastián leaves his eggs in the sunny kitchen, and Dante trails him as he walks to Max’s room. He flicks on the light in the doorway, though with the sunlight it’s barely necessary. Max _is_ up, sitting up in his little bed and looking out the window. “ _Buenos dias, gordo_.” Max tips his round face up at him, as he lifts him by the shoulders and kisses the side of his head. His hair is a curly disaster, but it always is, and Sebastián knows how to get it at least slightly under control. Max may be adopted, but they share their curly hair, and he likes to think it was meant to be that way.

“Papa,” Max babbles, gentle and content, resting against his shoulder. “Papa, Papa.”

“Hi,” Sebastián laughs, pressing his face into his hair and giving him a big kiss on the forehead. “What a big _day_ we have today, huh?”

Max hums a little, a surefire sign he’s at ease. Sebastián feels his little hand curl at the back of his neck, and he holds him tight so he can cling right onto him. At his feet, Dante is wagging his tail, ready to say good morning to his best friend, and Max must notice this, because he looks down and says, “Hi, puppy.”

“Hi, Dante,” Sebastián adds, and kneels so Max can pat him. Dante is four, so not much of a puppy anymore, but he has a feeling that, to Max, he’ll always be ‘puppy’. It’s one of the sweetest things he’s ever heard. Max himself is only three, and Dante really _is_ his best friend. He watches him rub at one of Dante’s ears with a little hand, still clinging tight to his neck with the other, and he sees a complete, peaceful calm on his son’s little face.

“C’mon, _mijo_ ,” he tells him, giving Dante a pat of his own. “I’m making breakfast. Want to sit in the kitchen with me?”

Max looks at him a moment, like he’s deciding, and then nods. Sebastián kisses his forehead one last time, then stands, and whistles for Dante to follow. “Let’s go finish breakfast,” he says. “We’ve got a busy day.”

Max snuggles into his neck and murmurs, “Papa.”

Sebastián will never get tired of hearing that little voice call him Papa.

*

Rosa’s wedding planning, once she and Diego stuck it on the calendar, was a relatively uncomplicated process. Well— as uncomplicated as wedding planning can be, Sebastián guesses. And yeah, he wasn’t directly involved with much of it, because even though she’s his sister, he’s not really in the wedding party besides being family. But he remembers his own wedding planning, and he sort of understands how all this works, by now.

Like Rosa’s, his own wedding was a small event, and Quinn— with Mama’s help— helmed most of the planning, but certainly took his input and opinions along for the ride. It was modest and intimate, the best day of his life, perfect in every possible way, without even a brush with over-the-top.

He’s heard so many stories of elaborate weddings, crazy complicated events that cost tens of thousands of dollars, and they make him cringe. He wonders if Gabi will want something big like that— maybe not all the extravagant spending, but a bigger guest list, a bigger party.

Either way, he mostly witnessed Rosa’s planning from afar— until one day at Christmas, three months ago, when Rosa came over to return a nice platter she’d borrowed to bring to her work holiday party.

Sebastián remembers the day so well. It was late afternoon; Violet and Mia would be home soon from school, Quinn was at work, and Max was down for a nap. He was starting on dinner prep with Christmas music playing, and he remembers his music pausing briefly for a text notification that she’d be over soon. When she knocked at the front door, he turned his music down and called, “Come in!”

She opened the door halfway and craned her neck inside, and he laughed at her. “You didn’t have to knock,” he said. “I knew you were coming.”

She stepped in all the way, holding the platter under her arm, and closed the door gently behind herself. “I didn’t want to wake Max,” she replied, with a small smile, and then walked to the counter; he gave her a sideways hug as she placed the platter down. “How are you?”

“I’m great.” His kitchen was a little bit of a mess already, and it was barely even late afternoon, but in his defense, he was making empanada dough. “How’s your week?”

She nodded steadily, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Busy,” she said, after a second, and then exhaled and smiled. “But— good. Still good.”

He motioned for her to sit at one of the counter barstools, and thankfully, she did, without hesitating. He missed his sisters— always misses them— now that they each have adult lives and real responsibilities, even though they all still live within the same small radius of each other. Any opportunity to catch up would always be a good one, and especially with Rosa, in the thick of planning a wedding and house hunting and building her future all at once. He remembers when he was in the same place; it was busy. “How’s… everything?” he asked her that day, tentative and gentle. “How’s the planning going?”

Rosa hesitated, for just a second, and though there wasn’t any concern on her face, he still went on alert just a little when she met his eyes and said, “I… actually wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Did something happen?” It may have just been his trained big brother instinct, but his next words were, “Do I need to kick Diego’s ass?”

Rosa laughed, shaking her head. “No!” She pushed him in the shoulder a little, and he grinned, glad to know his suspicions were unfounded. “It’s not about Diego. He’s completely fine. Promise.”

“Okay.” He feigned being on-guard, but knew his smile gave him away. “I was just checking.”

“No, uh…” Rosa played with her hands in her lap for a second. She took a little breath, and it was only then that Sebastián realized she might ask him to do something. Nothing really could have prepared him, though, for what her vague intention turned out to be. She looked up at him, with a small smile, a question in her eyes. “I was, um… wondering if I could ask you something.”

“Yeah, of course.” He wondered, in the moment, if she was going to ask for, like, marriage advice or something. “What’s up?”

Rosa took another deep breath, and gazed off at his empanada dough disaster for a second. He had to clean at least a little before Quinn got home, he remembers thinking. It wasn’t that Quinn wasn’t used to him making the kitchen a lived-in space; he just didn’t want to let him get home to a giant mess. “I’ve been thinking about the ceremony,” she said. “Planning, you know? Details and traditions and things.”

“For sure,” he said, which was a useless thing to add to the conversation, but he could sense that she was building up to something, and just wanted her to take her time.

“And, um…” She fiddled with her hands in her lap again. “Well, I— sorry. I just—”

“Don’t be sorry, Rosa.” He leaned down to meet her eyes. “Is there something you think I could help with?”

Then she nodded, steadily, and said, “Yeah.” She paused just a second, and added, “Would you, um— would you walk me down the aisle?”

Sebastián thinks he’ll never forget the way she asked that question. He isn’t sure if maybe it’s the fact that it made him realize, so abruptly, that his sister was all grown up, or if it’s because it made him think of how proud of her Papa would be, or just the honor he felt sitting there when she asked, but he knows he’ll never forget. He got emotional, and told her yes a million times, and they hugged and cried a little together, and he had never been more touched or honored in his whole entire life.

“Yes,” he said, brought to tears on a barstool in his kitchen in the middle of a sunny afternoon. “Of course I will.”

*

Their family has an unofficial wake-up order, on days that aren’t work days: first, Sebastián himself, and then Max, Mia, Violet, and Quinn. He thinks it’ll be the same today, but he soon learns he’s wrong— because as he’s getting the home fries into the oven, with Max in his chair crayon-ing away at one of his latest little coloring books, he sees someone enter the kitchen out of the corner of his eye who is distinctly not either of his daughters.

To Quinn, who is still in his pajamas, the cutest damn sight he’s ever seen, he gives a wave. He starts to say good morning to him, but notices just before he speaks that he isn’t wearing his hearing aids, so he signs it instead.

 _Good morning,_ Quinn replies, with a gentle smile. _Something smells good._

He tips his head to the stove. _Breakfast for the big day._

Max cranes his head around back of his chair. “Dada?”

Quinn beams as his hands move. _Good morning, Max._ He doesn’t sign ‘Max’, in terms of spelling out his name; he signs ‘little bean’, the sign name he gave him when he first started teaching Max to sign. Max doesn’t have too many words yet, but he can understand Quinn pretty well. It’s always a sight that turns Sebastián’s insides into pure, soft mush.

Quinn scoops Max up and gives him a few kisses on his face, and Sebastián, as he sets a timer on the home fries, hears Max let off a contented little giggle. The two of them communicate nonverbally at least ninety percent of the time, and it works best for them that way.

Carrying Max along with him, Quinn walks up next to him and tips his head against his shoulder. Sebastián kisses his temple, and then turns to him and asks, _Are Mia and Vi up yet?_

Quinn shakes his head. _They’re both still asleep_ , he replies. _We might want to let them sleep as long as they can, in case they wind up being out late._

 _That’s a good idea._ He pauses, and they share a collective, gentle exhale. Max snuggles into Quinn’s chest, curls askew every which way on his little head. Sebastián will have to try his hand at getting it under control, for the ceremony.

He ruffles those curls, and then kisses Quinn’s head again. Max lets out a little hum again. It’s the sweetest sound.

Half their family awake, they work on breakfast in the best kind of quiet.

*

Breakfast, even with a big day looming, is an easygoing affair, and Mia wakes up on her own, but Quinn has to go rouse Violet from her preteen slumber when the food turns out to be ready before she is. Sebastián wonders if, at thirteen now, she’s going to start having sleeping patterns like a typical teenager. He remembers he wasn’t the greatest at having a consistent bedtime, when he got to be high school aged.

But even so, at least Vi isn’t grouchy when she wakes up. They have a good breakfast, and although Sebastián doesn’t want to pat himself on the back _that_ much, it is pretty delicious, honestly. When it’s done, it’s time to get dressed, or at least it’s time for him and Quinn to start getting ready. They give the kids a little extra time to play and wait.

So they get ready, and get dressed, and he winds up waiting for Quinn to give him the last touch. It’s really not so different from any other morning— or, well, it very much _is_ , but Quinn helps him get ready every morning the same way he’s doing now. It’s a routine for them, their last moment in their room before they start their days. It started years ago, on his first day at his job after college. Quinn sat him down on the edge of their bed, did up his tie for him, and gave him a little pep talk and a kiss. Every work day since then has been the same.

So today, though it isn’t a work day, feels familiar. In their room, once he’s gotten dressed, Quinn walks to him brandishing the tie that goes with his suit. It’s dark gray, and although Quinn has made a lot of his ties over the years, this one came from the store, with the suit, when he bought it for Ben’s wedding a couple of years ago. (Well, actually, Ben didn’t so much have a wedding as he did have a party to announce that he’d gotten married on a whim, but that’s pretty much the most characteristic way he could have imagined his best friend would get married anyway.)

“Have a seat, honey,” Quinn tells him, and he settles onto the edge of the mattress. Quinn stands between his legs, a dutiful wardrobe helper, and Sebastián squeezes him at the waist.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs, as Quinn winds the tie around his neck.

“Of course.” Quinn pauses, thoughtful, as he ties with nimble hands, and then remarks, “We’re going to have a lovely day today.”

For a minute, then, it really does feel like a work day, because this is something very similar to what he would say if he were about to send him off into the kitchen and then from there to go to work. But Quinn isn’t in scrubs, the way he would be if it were; he’s in nice tan dress pants, a button-down, and a floral bow tie that he’s already done on himself. Sebastián has only seen him in a regular tie a handful of times, and at least two of those times, it was for a costume in a show. He likes his bow ties; he wore one for their wedding, and it was the cutest thing Sebastián had ever seen.

Still is.

“There we go.” Quinn tightens the knot, and the tie is done. Sebastián grins at him, squeezing his waist again, and Quinn tips his head over his shoulder to call, “Vi? Mia? Are you getting dressed?”

“I am!” Mia announces, from down the hall, which is a little scary, but Sebastián smiles anyway.

“I’ll help Max,” he volunteers, meeting Quinn’s eyes.

“Perfect.” Quinn gives him a little peck on the mouth, and he holds him close with his grip on his waist to kiss him a little longer. Quinn laughs against his lips, and when they pull away, he brushes a stray curl off his forehead.

“You ready?” Quinn hums.

“Not even close,” he replies, because he knows he’s going to be fighting off tears from the second he sees Rosa in her dress. Quinn laughs again, nods knowingly.

“Me, neither,” he says, rubbing his thumb at his cheek. Quinn has known Rosa since she was eight; she’s just as much family to him, even though they’re in-laws.

Sebastián kisses his forehead. “I love you,” he says, sort of out of nowhere, but sue him— he loves him, and loves their family, and all this wedding business has him soft on his own marriage.

Quinn smiles at him, the same freckly, fair-skinned, blue-eyed boy he fell in love with at eighteen, only sixteen years older. “I love you, too.”

It’ll never get old.

“Dad? Papa?” comes Violet’s voice from down the hall. “Where are Mia’s shoes?”

“Coming, Vi; I’ll help you find them,” Quinn replies, then pulls back and squeezes his hand once. “Shall we?”

Sebastián squeezes back. “Sure thing, baby,” he replies, and starts his not-so-ordinary day.

*

He meets Rosa at Mama’s house, and his prediction turns out to be absolutely right-on— when he sees her in her dress, Mama’s dress, actually, the one she wore on her and Papa’s wedding day, it brings him right to the brink of getting way too emotional in the middle of the day, before they’ve even started to drive to the church. He manages to hold it together all through various pictures and helping out with last-minute things, and then, as they’re waiting to get in the cars, Gabi threatens his life.

“I will kill you,” she says, verbatim, waving her bouquet at him menacingly. In her lavender maid of honor dress, she looks elegant and beautiful, and so grown up, too— but then again, Sebastián just really has to start facing the facts here. His little sisters _are_ grown up. They’re fully adults. Rosa is getting _married_.

He’s old.

To Gabi’s blunt death threat, he folds his arms and replies, “Why are you killing me?”

“I said I _will_ kill you,” she replies. “If you start crying before we get there.”

Now he holds both hands up, a signal of surrender, and laughs. “Who says I was going to cry?”

Gabi waves her hand around his face, a knowing smirk on her face, and then shrugs. “I can see it in your eyes, you big softie.”

“ _Hey_ ,” he says, still laughing through his emotional rollercoaster. “You’ve gotta give me a little bit of a break here.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just save it for during the ceremony, at least, okay?”

That, he can do. Or at least he can try. If for no other sake than the preservation of Gabi’s sanity. She’s dealt with a lifetime of her big brother being overly emotional, so today is nothing new. But he doesn’t want to cause any ripple effects and make the whole family emotional, or— yeah, he can be a softie sometimes. She’s right. But he doesn’t really mind being a softie.

He and Rosa are in the last car. He finds her with Mia, and Quinn is close by; Mia is fascinated by the petals in her little flower girl basket, and Quinn is trying so desperately (God bless him) to convince her to wait to drop them until they actually get to the church. “If you put them on the ground _here_ ,” he’s saying, as he bobs Max in his arms, “you’ll run out before the wedding even starts!”

Mia seems to take this as some kind of decree for flower petal protection, because she holds her little basket to her chest very vigilantly, and nods to Quinn and then to Rosa like she’s accepting her mission. “I’ll save them,” she says, and Rosa smiles.

“Thanks, Mia,” she replies. “I’m glad you’re part of my big day.”

“Me, too,” Mia declares, and then, with this big smile across her tanned face, adds, “You look like a princess, Tia.”

Rosa’s smile, so gentle, widens, and honestly, Mia is right. Rosa has always been the picture of grace, and today, all in white with her hair in simple curls and a cross around her neck, she looks like she was pulled right out of one of the fairytales Mia is so fond of. “That’s very sweet,” she says to Mia, poised as a real princess speaking to her subjects. “But look at _your_ dress. I think that’s very princess-y, too, don’t you?”

Mia takes the opportunity to twirl. She absolutely loves all things to do with getting dressed up. Learning there was a wedding on the calendar was like crack for her little princess-obsessed brain. “Yeah!” she cries, gleeful, as she whirls back around to see Rosa again. Her dress is the same shade of lavender that the bridesmaids are wearing. In her basket, the flower petals are all white and purple. She even gets a flower _crown_ , for the occasion— one Quinn spent awhile pinning into her hair this morning.

It’s the sweetest sight, and it makes Sebastián think of Violet, being the flower girl at his own wedding. Almost a high schooler now, standing and talking to Gabi, his _own_ daughter is growing up.

Life happens too fast.

He sits with Rosa in the back of the last car. Her dress spreads way out over the seats; it’s simple, but it has a full skirt, and she keeps patting it down.

She doesn’t look nervous, not at all, not even a little. Sebastián has seen her nervous plenty of times, like when Diego was coming over for dinner for the first time, or she was opening her college acceptance before she knew it was an acceptance, or she was stressing out about giving a salutatorian speech at her, Gabi’s, and Diego’s high school graduation. No, what he sees on her now is preparedness. Serenity. A little anticipation for sure, but who wouldn’t feel anticipated on the way to their wedding, right?

Right before his eyes, his little sister has grown up.

He puts his hand on her knee, or what he thinks might be her knee; otherwise, it’s just layers of gown. “Are you ready?” he asks.

Rosa smiles, and adjusts her glasses. There was no use in not wearing them for the ceremony, she said, early on. She didn’t want to be some kind of teen movie protagonist who sacrificed her actual ability to see for nonsensical beauty standards.

“I’m ready,” she says, simple and calm. “Although…” She trails off a little, then shakes her head, like she’s changed her mind.

“What?” he presses.

“Oh, it’s— not a _big_ deal, I just—” Rosa chuckles. “So many people are gonna be looking at me, when we walk down the aisle.”

Rosa has never loved being the center of attention, so he gets why that might be sort of preoccupying. “Aw, don’t worry,” he says, “it’s not so bad.” Mama walked him down the aisle. It felt like a blur, because the altar— marrying Quinn— was at the other end. “Over before you know it.”

Rosa nods. “Right.” She still doesn’t look nervous, but… he wants to assure her.

He pauses a second, then, with a grin, nudges her and says, “I can walk with a purpose, if you want.”

She laughs and shakes her head again. “I’m okay going normal pace.”

“Okay,” he replies. “But if it comes down to it, I’ll protect you from Abuela trying to hug you.”

“Seb,” Rosa giggles.

“I’m just kidding.”

She pushes a strand of hair behind her veil. “I know.”

He watches her a second, all composed and elegant, and all at once it hits him how much he wishes Papa were here to see her. Not that he _hasn’t_ been thinking of Papa— he always thinks of him, especially at big milestones in his and his sisters’ lives, and it’s not lost on him that if Papa were here, he’d be sitting where Sebastián himself is right now, and he’d probably be in the next car up, with Mama, Quinn, the kids, and Gabi, playing a different role in Rosa’s big day.

He wishes. _God_ , he wishes, always. But he’s so glad to be here for Rosa, and he knows Papa is still here, watching over them, here in a different way.

He must be looking at her kind of funny, because Rosa laughs a little and goes, “What?”

Sebastián takes a second, and a deep breath. He meets her eyes and remarks, “He would be really proud of you, y’know.”

Rosa sobers a little, but her smile remains— it just turns bittersweet. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he replies, and he won’t cry, but he sure feels emotional, right about now. “He’d be _so_ proud of you.”

Rosa sighs, a little shakily, as she nods. Her voice is small, when it comes. “I wish he were here.”

“Me, too,” he says. The quiet hangs between them for a second before he adds, “But… in a way, he is.”

Papa is always _here_ , sort of. Sebastián wears his cross on a chain, and his wedding band. He’s in prayers and empty spaces. In the church today, they’re leaving a space open for him, next to Mama. Sebastián and Quinn did the same, eight years ago.

“Thank you,” Rosa says, abruptly. “For… agreeing to walk me, I mean.”

He swallows. Maybe he’s even more emotional than he thought. “Of course, Rosa,” he says. “I’m honored.”

She smiles. She really does look so pretty. Diego won’t know what hit him.

The church is a quick drive away, and lining up is a whole affair. Gabi is stressed out about Rosa’s hair, as they stand outside the church’s steps, and Sebastián has to all but chase her away. “She’s _fine_ , Gabi,” he tells her, and sends her off to go take her spot in line.

Across the small crowd, he finds Quinn; he’s helping corral the handful of children who are involved in the procession, including Mia and Diego’s little nephew. Max is inside, with Vi, and Tia Teresa. Quinn is walking with Mama.

Once he catches his eye, he gives him a wink. _See you inside_ , he signs. Quinn blows him a kiss.

They open the double doors of the church, and he takes his spot next to Rosa; he can hear music going inside. It’s a beautiful, sunny day.

It’s time for the rest of Rosa’s life to start.

At the door, he offers her his arm. He can see their path, clear down the aisle to the front of the church, with Diego in a tux at the end of it under the big stained glass window. Sebastián’s seat is open, between Mama and Quinn. Mia has paved their path with rose petals.

“C’mon,” he says, and Rosa smiles up at him through her veil. “Let’s take a walk.”

And they do.


	16. and your name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another one! No request or prompt here, just me getting an idea. If you don’t know who Cole is, he’s Quinn’s theatre friend, and he’s popped up briefly in a couple of fics but more frequently on my tumblr. Cole is trans, and this ficlet is just... some wholesome content about that. Set pre-college! It says (cole’s) sophomore year because he’s a year above the crickets.  
> Anyway. In which: Cole gets a chai latte.

_ (cole’s) sophomore year of high school  _ | _october_

  
Cole hasn’t been to Starbucks in awhile.

It isn’t really on purpose. The Starbucks is on his walk home from school, and he frequented it plenty last year. It’s more that this is shaping out to be a weird fall, the kind of season where all you want to do after school is make a beeline for home, hide under your covers, listen to music, and shut the world off.

But also, there have been other things keeping him from Starbucks. Like the question they ask you, when they take your order here, and the answer he’s always felt like he had to give, that has slowly but surely grown more and more uncomfortable to say or even think about. Until recently, he hasn’t been sure exactly what  _ is _ comfortable for him to say in response to that one question. It’s so much effort, so much more than he’s been able to process mentally— until today.

Today, it’s raining, and Cole wants a chai latte. So on his walk home from school, with his hood pulled up and his shoes soaking wet, he veers left on the sidewalk and walks through the front door of the Starbucks at the corner of Pine and Chestnut Street.

It’s warm inside, and averagely crowded, nothing that unusual for a Tuesday afternoon. Cole lifts his hood, dries his glasses on his shirt under the baggy, dark zip-up sweatshirt, and gets in line.

There’s no one he knows in here. In here, he can be himself.

He pauses the music in his earbuds when he’s near the front of the line. He has hiding them under his hood down to a science; a couple of times, he’s listened to his favorite playlist during the more mentally tiring algebra II classes. Which has cost him on a couple of quizzes, but it’s getting harder and harder to care.

It’s his turn. The barista is bright and smiley. Maybe a little too smiley. She has pink hair and a blue shirt, like cotton candy. “What can I get for ya?”

“Uh— a grande chai latte, please.” His heart is beating kind of fast, anticipating. It shouldn’t be. She doesn’t know him. “With heavy cream and vanilla syrup.”

She’s writing on a cup with a Sharpie. Her nails are painted pink, like her hair. “Perfect.”

He takes a deep breath. Is she not going to ask? They usually ask here. Maybe they did away with the policy. That would suck. He doesn’t even want a chai latte that bad. He just wanted somebody to ask him—

“And your name, for the order?”

_ Oh.  _ There it is. He actually hesitates, for a second, kind of stammering, and he must look pretty stupid, like he isn’t sure what his name is. Cotton candy girl’s Sharpie hovers over the cup; she waits.

He knows his name. He didn’t used to know it. He does now.

“Cole,” he tells her. “I’m Cole.”

He’s never said it out loud before.

“Cole?” To hear it from cotton candy girl is so weirdly validating, and he watches her write— four letters, C-O-L-E, on the cup, drawing a little smiley face next to it. “Okay, Cole, your total is 4.21.”

He pays with cash, and tries not to blush. Maybe it’s just the validation of her being the first person to call him by his name, but cotton candy girl is kind of cute. Chipper energy and all.

“That’ll be right out,” she tells him, and the smallest weight lifts off his shoulders.

He can see his name on the cup, as she passes it along to her fellow baristas so they can make his drink. It’s thrilling, sort of— this milestone, or something like it, saying his name out loud. He knows what he would have said, before he figured out his name— what he might say if Mom were with him, because even though he’s been thinking of himself as  _ he _ for awhile, he has yet to have that kind of conversation with Mom or his girlfriend or anyone else besides. He knows he has to. He just… well, he needs to go at his pace.

So: Starbucks.

“Cole?” one of the baristas says, a minute later at the pickup counter, and he’s never felt more seen in his life.

Armed with a chai that bears this name,  _ his _ name, he turns his music back on and walks out into the rain again.

*

Mom isn’t home when he gets there; she’s at a showing, so he holes up in his room with his chai and plays his guitar while he waits for her. It’s nice, just looking at the cup. He isn’t sure if it would be weird to keep it.

Mom gets home just past six. She calls a name up the stairs— not his name, and it makes him wince, but it’s not like she knows any better. “I’m home, bug,” she adds.

Maybe, he tells himself, as he puts his guitar away, maybe that should change.

It’s mac and cheese for dinner, with breadcrumbs, one of his favorites. “A good rainy night meal,” she remarks, as she’s taking it out of the oven. “Dont’cha think?”

At the kitchen table, he lets off what he knows is a sort of noncommittal hum, resting his head in his hand. At the stove, her back is to him, but she turns at this noise.

“Hey,” she says, gently. He knows she can tell he hasn’t been doing well lately. “Are you okay, bug? You look preoccupied.”

Of course she can tell. She always can.

He meets her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Yeah. It’s time.

“Mom?” he says, slowly. “I, uh… I need to talk to you about something.”


	17. got hitched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no request or prompt on this one, just me getting an idea. I don't know what it is with me and marriage fics lately; this isn't even going to be my last one this week alone.  
> In which: Ben sends Nando a Snaphat, from another continent.

_eight years after graduation_ | _august_

Sebastián is completely unsuspecting, when the Snapchat comes in.

The house is quiet, and he and Quinn are in bed. He figures they’ll actually go to sleep soon, or at least soonish, but for now, they sit up against their pillows, with the light still on. It’s long past Violet’s bedtime; Quinn put her down at least an hour and a half ago, and after sitting out on the patio with him for a bit, Sebastián carried his husband to bed for little to no reason other than he just felt like carrying him.

He’s watching a Coyotes preseason weekly recap on his phone, and next to him, Quinn is knitting. His yarn is royal blue and bright red; he’s working on a scarf he keeps swearing he’s going to mail up to Remy to wear to games when his season starts. _To celebrate his contract_ , Quinn said, when he told Sebastián what he’d be doing, all self-satisfied smiles. _I think he could use something new in Montreal colors, don’t you?_

His needles clack together every now and then, and the audio on Sebastián’s phone is low, but it’s not like Quinn would be bothered by that anyway, seeing as he took his hearing aids out for the night hours ago. Their house, Sebastián is happily aware, is a safe zone for Quinn, has been since the day they bought it to build their life in together.

A notification buzzes his phone, and the banner at the top tells him he has a Snapchat from Ben. Which isn’t weird, until it is— because what time is it in France right now? It has to be, like, kind of early in the morning, right? In what world is Ben up early on vacation?

He opens Snapchat to investigate. The Snap has been sent into a group chat, but not a new one; it’s one containing himself, Ben, and Quinn, and has to have existed since college even though it hasn’t been used in a short while.

He opens the Snap. It loads. As it loads, he wonders if this is a leftover message from Cole’s show last night. That was, after all, the whole reason Ben crossed the Atlantic Ocean for vacation in the first place. It’s Cole’s first tour outside the US, and Ben and Remy created this whole scheme for Ben to surprise him, which Remy was on board with because he will use literally any excuse to travel to Europe, especially France, and Sebastián has heard about this over several elaborate text exchanges, phone calls, Snapchats, et cetera—

The Snap loads.

Sebastián looks at it.

Wait. _Wait_ . _WHAT?_

It expires before he can fully process, but he knows what he saw. He scrambles to replay it, leaning forward and off the pillow.

It’s a picture, a selfie, of Ben in bed with Cole wrapped up in his arm. They’re both, like, clothed and everything, and they look all soft and in love, but that’s not the main point of interest.

Because Ben is holding both of their hands up to the camera, and although Cole has had his black engagement ring for upwards of two years, Ben… is also wearing a ring. And Cole is holding a piece of paper. A certificate.

The caption Ben has typed reads: _got hitched_

Cole is holding a _marriage certificate_.

Sebastián screenshots the picture before it can disappear again, and then immediately starts tapping-slash-whacking Quinn in the thigh to get his attention. He’s gentle about it, but he still feels bad when Quinn startles and shoots daggers up at him. He drops his needles and signs. _What’s wrong?_

In lieu of signing a response, he turns the phone to Quinn, because it’s easier than attempting to convey via sign his current stream of consciousness (Ben got married is he _kidding_ how did he just get _married_ in the middle of _Paris_ on a _whim_ oh my _God_ he is going to bust his ass so much but also he’s _pissed_ because he wanted to go to his actual _wedding_ and _Ben Shaley Is Actually Fucking Married_ he can’t _believe_ it like yeah he knew this was _coming_ because he’s been _engaged_ for two years but like— _Rho got married_!!!!!!!?!??!????!!?!).

Quinn studies the photo, then his eyes widen with realization. In a moment, he shifts from his complete bedtime serenity to animated, excited confusion. He looks up to Sebastián, then back to the phone, then up to him again, and signs, in quick and snappy motions, _They eloped?_ , and then, immediately, _Call Ben._

Sebastián nods, as Quinn lunges to the bedside table and grabs his hearing aids. He opens the phone app, and picks Ben out of his favorites, and as it rings, he just sits there vibrating. He can’t believe it. He actually can’t believe it. Ben just went and got married. Like— okay, that’s admittedly the most Ben way he could possibly think to get married, but— is this real life?

Ben picks up on the second ring, as Sebastián is putting the call on speaker. “Helloooooo!” His voice is singsong, like he knows exactly what he did. Which, like, _obviously_ he knows what he did. But Sebastián is still _shook_ —

“ _Dude_!” he cries, half-laughing, as Quinn leans back over to him and scoots closer on the mattress. “How could you just send that out of context?”

Ben laughs. “In my defense,” he remarks, his voice the picture of chill, “it really doesn’t require that much context, right?”

Quinn fiddles with his ears, and then he must get them turned on, because he chooses that exact moment to cry, “Benjamin Shaley.”

“Mini!” The joy in Ben's voice is indescribable. “I knew you’d bitch me out for this!”

“I cannot believe you,” Quinn says. “You did _not_ elope last night.”

“Oh, but I did,” Ben remarks, every bit the wise-ass he’s always been, and he sounds so _happy_ , and Sebastián is, like, so fucking happy for him right now—

“Rho— _congratulations_ , holy shit,” he tells him. “Did you plan this?”

“No,” Ben laughs. “Not even a little. And I think that’s maybe the best part. Hold on.” There’s rustling and mumbling on his end for a second, and then a fourth voice enters the conversation.

“Good morning, guys.” Cole’s voice is super raspy, like he just woke up. Sebastián tries to do some quick math, but all he can determine about time zones is that it has to be early over there. “Sorry we didn’t tell you.”

“Cole, I can’t believe this,” Quinn says. “How could you let his chaos influence you?”

“Mm.” Cole pauses, contemplatively, and then yawns. “I’ll actually be letting his chaos influence me for the rest of my life, now.”

Quinn takes a deep, therapeutic breath. Sebastián wraps an arm around his shoulders. He has, many times, seen his husband get simultaneously pissed and excited; it’s a hilarious thing to witness. “I love you both,” Quinn says, in a slightly less sharp voice. “And I’m so very happy for you. But words cannot describe how much I wanted to actually _attend_ your wedding.”

“We’re gonna have a party, Q,” Ben replies, like he was ready for this question. “When we get home. Well. Like. Not _right_ when we get home. But we’re gonna start planning it when we get home.”

Quinn pauses, like he’s contemplating this, and in the silence, Cole adds, “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“Well, _I’ll_ say,” Quinn says. Sebastián thumbs at his shoulder, to soothe the good-natured rage. “My _goodness_ , you two. I should have known you’d get married some crazy way.”

“Tell us the story!” Sebastián adds, because he is _extremely_ eager to know.

Cole lets out a soft laugh. “It’s not a long story,” he says.

“We were at dinner,” Ben explains. “Last night, after the show, with Remy. And Cole just… out of nowhere. He was like, we should get married.”

“ _Cole Kolinsky_ ,” Quinn gasps. “Your mother is going to _kill_ you.”

“She knows!” Cole cries. “She knows. I promise. She’s the only person who knew before you. Her and Remy.”

“Was Rem with you?” Sebastián asks.

“He was with us when we decided to do it,” Ben says. “But not at the town hall.”

“That little shit,” Sebastián cries. “Where is he now?”

“Out galavanting in the streets, I bet,” Ben mutters, and Cole laughs at him.

“I’m _sure_ Remy is asleep,” Cole amends. “We were out so late last night.”

Quinn rubs his temple, leans into Sebastián’s embrace, and whispers, “I cannot _believe_ you two.”

“Oh, you love us, Quinny,” Ben says. “Don’t even try to hide it.”

“Of _course_ I do,” Quinn replies, in that tone so characteristic of _him_ , where he’s firm and kind at the exact same time. “My goodness,” he says. “You’re entirely too much for me.”

Cole laughs again. “I promise, Quinn,” he says, “it’ll be a really good party.”

“Oh, it best be.” The grin on Quinn’s face is so cute, Sebastián could combust. “I have very high standards.”

“Ah, yes,” Ben says, in a posh accent, “nothing but the best for the esteemed Quinny Cooper—”

“ _Ben_ ,” Cole mumbles, and Ben laughs so loud.

“I’m so—” The initial shock has _sort_ of worn off, but Sebastián still feels like he’s processing several things at once. “I’m so _happy_ for you guys, _jeez_! Why are you awake so early, anyway? It’s your honeymoon morning!”

“I have to—” Cole breaks his sentence with a yawn, like talking about being up early is making him more tired. “I have to be on my tour bus at eight-thirty.”

“Oh, _Cole_ ,” Quinn whispers. “That’s a real wrench in your morning, huh?”

“Is what it is,” Cole replies.

“Wait, so… what time is it now?” As soon as he mentioned the fact that it’s their honeymoon morning, it started occurring to Sebastián that he and Quinn are… keeping them on the phone. On their first morning as a married couple. He loves his friends to death, but nobody interrupted him and Quinn the morning after they got married. It was just the two of them; even Vi was at Mama’s house for a sleepover. The only thing they had to do was bask in that fresh joy.

“It’s seven,” Ben announces. “Seven-oh-nine.”

“Okay, so,” he says, “I’m gonna, like, hang up the phone now.”

“ _Nanny_ ,” Ben says, with a snort. “We knew you’d want to talk.”

“Yeah, but we talked,” he replies, “and now I’m hanging up so you guys don’t have to, like, talk to us until Cole leaves.”

“Hm.” Ben pauses, and then, in his peak wise-ass tone, remarks, “What if I hang up first?”

“Oh, _goodness_ , you two,” Quinn mumbles, into Sebastián’s shoulder, “don’t get into one of these arguments.”

“Bro, you hang up first.”

“No, _you_ hang up first—”

5,000 miles away, in a hotel bed in Paris, Ben Kolinsky hangs up the phone. He rolls over in bed and grins at his husband. “How did I do?”

Next to him under the nice white sheets, Cole is the best thing he has _ever_ seen. He laughs, with his hand over his face, before he reaches for him. When they meet in the middle of the mattress, Cole presses a kiss to his lips. “You are an idiot,” he whispers.

“Mmm.” Ben kisses him again, and Cole wraps around him, and he thinks there’s absolutely no way heaven could be any better than this. “That’s a title I’ll proudly own, but only with an amendment.”

Cole tangles his fingers in Ben’s hair, long and now sort of messy from sleep, but who gives one single fuck what their hair looks like when they just got married to the love of their life last night. “What’s the amendment?” he asks, between kisses.

“That I’m _your_ idiot.”

“ _Oh_.” Cole laughs. His eyes wrinkle shut, and Ben is going to be gone on him for the rest of his days. “You’re definitely my idiot.”

“Perfect,” Ben says, and kisses him again, and he doesn’t need anything else.


	18. rude awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Quinn and Nando are bickering, and they wake Touille up from a nap.  
> [Original prompt: Could you please bless me with Quindo bickering like an old married couple?](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/625380912835739648/i-for-once-am-in-a-mood-for-quindo-fluff-some)

_junior year_ | _october_

The commotion in the kitchen wakes Remy up from the best nap he’s had in awhile, and that in and of itself is a sin.

Naps are not only a spiritually enriching experience, they’re also essential. Remy is slowly learning to use them as a remedy for the fact that he only gets so many hours of sleep per night. Ben keeps telling him that he should look into taking melatonin or something for the insomnia, but it always feels like a problem for another day. The other day it’s a problem for has yet to come.

So today, after he wakes up at five AM and does not fall back asleep, he spends the better half of the morning in the library busting out his entire upcoming paper for HI 387 (British Empire). When he finishes formatting his bibliography, he feels his primal nap instinct coming on, and the sky outside looks gray, which just helps the urge along. He gathers up his stuff, walks back to the house on Beech Street, changes into sweats, and flops into his bed with his feet on the pillow and head on the pile of stuffed animals at the end of the mattress.

Only God and Ben Shaley can judge him for his stuffed animal collection.

Some indeterminate time later, he wakes to the noise downstairs. He can’t make out exactly what’s being said, but he’d know Quinn’s shrill voice anywhere, piercing the stairwell and creeping right up into Remy’s room.

There’s a steady rain drumming on the window, and he lifts his head off of his arm. He feels like he accidentally imprinted the sleeve of his sweatshirt onto his cheek, if the weird bumpy sensation when he runs his fingers over his face is any indication. This is a sign of a good nap. Unfortunately, it’s been interrupted.

Downstairs, Quinn is still talking. He has one volume, and it’s loud.

Remy buries his face in between his stuffed snake and his duck, and sighs.

He lays in bed for a minute more, weighing the merits of attempting Naptime Part Two versus going downstairs to see what the fuss is about. In reality, he knows that there’s probably  _ no _ fuss at all, and that Quinn is just on another of his random rants which must double as practicing onstage projection based on how loud and animated he can get. Remy fishes through his plush pile until he finds his phone, where he checks the time— it’s 3:02, which means he slept for at least two and a half hours. If he tries to go back to sleep  _ now _ , there’s no way he’ll ever be able to get to sleep at the normal time to go to sleep.

So he rolls over, sits up in bed, and rubs his eyes. He feels a mighty yawn coming on, but it doesn’t actually hit him until he fixes his shirt— somehow, under his hoodie, it bunched all the way up to his chest in his sleep. And the ankle seam on one of his joggers is up to his knee.

Wow. It really  _ was _ a good nap.

The yawn hits him when he stands up and out of bed. He kind of feels like a zombie, walking after such a deep sleep. He guesses it isn’t such a bad thing to be so well-rested. It’s been awhile.

Downstairs, Quinn’s voice persists. When he opens his bedroom door and steps out into the hallway, another factor comes into play— somebody is  _ cooking _ down there, and, well, okay, he can say ‘somebody’ but the smell tells him without a doubt it’s Nando. It smells like that spicy chicken soup recipe he loves making on rainy, crappy days, and Remy had no idea he was hungry, but all of a sudden his stomach growls like a feral cat.

Jeez.

As he heads down the stairs, slow but steady, he can gradually start to make out Quinn’s words. “... do  _ not _ understand even in the  _ slightest _ how you can work like this—”

“Baby,” he hears Nando laugh, which puts a temporary stop to Quinn’s tirade. “I swear, there’s a method to my madness!”

“Oh, it’s madness, alright,” Quinn replies. “I mean,  _ goodness _ , Sebastián—” There’s a clatter of dishware, like someone has put something in the sink. “You’re building an entire tower over here!”

Remy rounds the corner into the kitchen just in time for Nando to protest, “But I’m gonna  _ clean _ it… promise!”

Quinn is the first thing he sees, orange-haired and pint-sized in a baggy (obviously stolen) sweatshirt and gesturing snappily. He stands next to the counter. “The issue isn’t that you’ll clean it eventually,” he’s saying to Nando, who leans against the stove with a goofy grin on his face and a ladle in his hand. The huge pot on the burner behind him, Remy wagers, must be the source of the smell. “The  _ issue _ ,” Quinn adds, “is the mess.”

Which, okay, yeah. There’s a mess.

Nando has stacked the sink full of obviously relevant dishes, and both counters are laid with evidence that he was there, from cutting boards to empty cans to knives. Nando being a disaster cook isn’t new news, not to Remy  _ or _ to Quinn or anyone else in this house— but he must have struck a nerve with Quinn today, by the looks of it.

Quinn looks ready to gear up for another rant, and Remy’s half-asleep brain doesn’t really love the thought of that, so he cuts in before he can. “ _ Crisse _ , Q,” he says, rubbing his eye as he stands in the kitchen doorway. “Is there a national emergency?”

Quinn folds his arms and lets off a sigh, leaning his hip against the counter. “There may as well be.”

Nando is grinning at him, like he’s trying not to laugh. “ _ Baby _ .”

They’re not alone in the kitchen, though— Ben is at the table by the window, sketching by the looks of it, based on his huge spreads of paper and the pencil stuck into his bun. Jordy and Sam are playing cards at the same tabletop Quinn is leaning against, and X is next to them, on his phone. “Stay out of it, Rem,” Ben remarks, turning in his seat to face him, with a half-grin on his face. “He is on the  _ warpath _ .”

Quinn snaps his head over to Ben. “I am  _ not _ on the warpath,” he says. “I am maintaining a sense of order.”

Nando puts his hand over his face and makes a noise like he’s trying not to laugh. Quinn whips back to him and jabs his finger at him menacingly, which is really hard to do when you’re 5’6 but your boyfriend is 6’4. Quinn does it anyway. “ _ Sebastián Hernandez _ , you are going to  _ get _ it—”

Remy suppresses a laugh of his own, and slumps into the chair across the table from Ben. “How long has this been going?” he asks, in a low voice.

Ben is still grinning. “Like ten minutes?” he replies. “He got in from his drama thing and unleashed holy terror.”

Remy sighs. “Great.”

“I  _ hear _ you talking about me, Ben,” Quinn calls across the room, despite the fact that calling is completely unnecessary given the size of the kitchen.

Ben shields his face with one hand. “White flag! I surrender. I’m sorry, your majesty, for my great offense—”

“ _ Benjamin _ .”

Ben winces, and pulls the pencil out of his hair. “Message received,” he remarks, and goes back to his spread of papers. It  _ is _ drawing stuff. Remy doesn’t understand architecture homework, but Ben is great at it.

Remy watches as Quinn walks back to the sink. He turns the faucet on, as if to conquer the stack of Nando’s cooking collateral. “How do you people  _ live _ like this?”

“How are you surprised?” X asks, not looking up from his phone but grinning like crazy. “You were in here all last year.”

Which is true. Although Remy just moved into Beech for his first year this preseason, Nando lived here last year, too. Quinn is well familiar with the disasters he makes in kitchens, particularly the Beech kitchen. At least freshman year, he was relegated to the shitty student kitchen in the basement of Wilson Hall, the freshman boys’ dorm. Beech Street gives him a space of his own. Which is good because the whole team gets to eat his food. But bad in the process of making said food.

“I’m not surprised, Xander,” Quinn says, turning to X, in a slightly less homicidal tone. He holds a soapy blue sponge in his left hand. “I merely wish that a certain boyfriend of mine would learn to clean up his messes—”

“I told you, baby,” Nando replies, stirring his soup with the ladle, “I’m  _ gonna _ clean, when I’m all finished. What’s the use of cleaning during the process, when I’m just gonna make a mess again on the same surface?”

Quinn turns off the sink, presses his fingers to his own temple, takes a long breath, and replies, “What’s the use of keeping your  _ empty bean cans _ on the counter?” He points the sponge to the counter, where there are, in fact, empty bean cans everywhere. His point makes a flicking motion and sends a stray sud flying into the air. It lands on the floor. “ _ Empty bean cans _ , Sebastián.”

“They’re just cans,” Nando replies.

Quinn bristles, puts the sponge in the sink, and dries his hands on a kitchen towel. “And the rubbish barrel,” he replies, pacing to the counter, “is  _ right  _ there.”

Quinn scoops the cans off the counter, opens the top of the nearby trash, and drops them into the bag beneath. With a  _ hmph _ , he turns his pointy, freckled nose up at Nando, like he’s saying  _ so there. _

Nando blows him a kiss, which intensifies Quinn’s rage. “Thanks,  _ mi amor _ .”

Across the table, Ben is still grinning even as he draws, like he wants to laugh, and Remy can’t blame him. This is not at all an unfamiliar dynamic— since their earliest days dating, Nando and Quinn’s relationship has been characterized by bickering like they’re an old, married couple.

Well, okay. In actuality, their ‘bickering’ looks more like Quinn bitching at Nando and getting nothing but heart eyes in return. Nando is a simp, and Quinn is an irritable priss, and they’re in love.

Remy doesn’t get romance, but he knows it works for them.

Ben looks up from his sketching, and catches Remy’s eye across the table. He wears the unmistakable smile of someone who is going to cause problems on purpose. “Duck,” he murmurs, in a mischievous voice with volume only for him. “Watch this.”

“Oh, God,” Remy mutters, but it’s too late.

Ben leans over the back of his chair and remarks, “Y’know, Quinny, you talk mad shit for someone who can’t cook to save his life.”

Remy snorts into the neckline of his sweatshirt. “ _ Ben _ .” At the stove, Nando guffaws. Jordy and Sam, who, as wise, observant bystanders, have chosen to remain quiet right up until now, both start heckling like their brains are connected. (They’re a D-pair, so they probably are, come to think of it.) “ _ Yoooo _ ,” Sam mumbles, and Jordy lets out a quiet, “Oh, shit.”

Flushed pink in the face, Quinn whirls on his heel to face Ben and Remy’s table. He has the energy of a tea kettle that’s ready to start screeching. “ _ Benjamin Shaley _ .”

Ben grins, owning his chirp. “What, so you can dish it, but you can’t take it?”

“You’ve gotta get used to that,” Jordy cuts in. “Being manager comes with the responsibility to get chirped…”

“Oh, trust me, Jordan.” Of all the people in the kitchen, Jordy seems to have irritated Quinn the least. “I am well accustomed to the chirping.”

“Yeah, Jordy,” Nando adds, with a big grin as he pulls up a steaming ladle of his soup. “He’s been dating me for two years.”

“Oh,  _ please _ ,” Ben replies, because he is clearly not done. “I’ve never heard you chirp him in your  _ life _ , Nanny. All you do is kiss his ass.”

Remy snorts again. “ _ Yoooooo _ !” Sam cries.

Nando drops his ladle into the pot. “ _ Rho _ ! I do too chirp him!”

Ben laughs wildly. “You do  _ not _ ,” he says. “You don’t  _ dare _ chirp him. You’re too busy simping twenty-four-seven.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you chirp Quinn,” X offers, still grinning at his phone.

Remy jumps on the bandwagon. “They kinda have a point, Nanny,” he says, and waits for the reign of terror to descend upon him.

But Quinn has apparently tuned out. Rather than participate, he has chosen the duration of this exchange to tidy up Nando’s counter mess. He throws away trash— the fragments of a poblano pepper, the remaining bean cans, a bag that held frozen corn. Then he deposits the cutting board into the sink with the knife Nando was using.

“There we go.” He wipes his hands on the dish towel, then turns around to face their side table again, and Remy thinks for a second that he’s going to take another shot at Ben. Instead, Quinn looks to  _ him _ , which is terrifying until he says, very evenly, “Hello, Remy. I heard you had a nap.”

“Uh.” Remy isn’t sure if Quinn would kill him if he laughed. He can turn on a dime. It’s terrifying. But also beneficial, for managerial purposes. “Yeah,” he tells Quinn. “It was a good nap.”

“Well, good.” Quinn dusts off the front of his sweatshirt. It says Hernandez on the sleeve, as if its sheer size on him wasn’t proof enough that it’s stolen property. “I hope we didn’t disturb you too much.”

“Oh—” Now Remy does let out his laugh. He doesn’t dare tell Quinn that yes, actually, he did wake him up. He really did need to get up for the afternoon, so it doesn’t matter. “Uh, no. It’s fine.”

“Good.” Quinn smiles, then turns back around, walking to Nando by the giant soup pot. He rises on his tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “Isn’t that better?” he asks him, gesturing to the clear countertop.

Nando is still grinning, like the huge simp he is, and smiles sideways at Quinn as he stirs the soup. “Much better, baby.” He wraps him up sideways in his arm. Quinn gets swallowed by the sheer size of him, as usual. “Thank you,” Nando adds, and gives him an actual kiss.

Quinn is still flushed in the face, but now it’s that cheesy blush Remy has watched Nando give him so many times. Just like that, Quinn has cooled off, and the noise level in the kitchen is better for it. Remy looks away, because watching them together always feels like an invasion of privacy, even when they’re engaging in mild PDA. He thinks it’s just a him thing.

Nando keeps cooking. Quinn keeps him company. Ben gets back to drawing, and X to scrolling, and Jordy and Sam to their cards. The rain keeps pattering at the windows, and conversation returns to a normal level, and it’s a perfectly normal Sunday afternoon.

Yeah. Remy doesn’t get romance. And he definitely never will. But he loves this team, and he loves this house, and he really loves his friends.


	19. electric feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Rhodey turns 21.  
> Man, I don't know. It's 11:49 PM and I promised myself I'd finish this before midnight. Here we are. This is definitely WAY too long to be in the ficlet collection, but too tangential to be its own work, at least for the time being. Have some Ben and Cole yearning. Warning for extremely copious alcohol consumption. That is pretty much the plot of the fic.  
> [Original prompt: Does Ben spend his 21st birthday with Cole?](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/625983671553474560/does-does-ben-spend-his-21st-birthday-with)

_junior-senior summer_ | _august_

_  
TWEET_

_ben @benwiththegoodhair_

_not to be dramatic but it is truly a fucking travesty that i’m 21 today and no one is around to go out with me tonight_

_08 Aug 2021 10:13 AM _

_ben @benwiththegoodhair_

_Replying to @benwiththegoodhair_

_pvd stays winning but why do my friends live far away_

_08 Aug 2021 10:14 AM _

_Remy Tremblay @rtremblay20_

_Replying to @benwiththegoodhair_

_This is so sad. Alexa play rhode island sucks_

_08 Aug 2021 10:18 AM _

_quinn 🧣🌈🌷🧏♂️ @cooperquinn_

_Replying to @benwiththegoodhair_

_Come to Arizona!!_

_08 Aug 2021 10:31 AM _

_Sebastián @hernandezzy43_

_Replying to @benwiththegoodhair, @cooperquinn_

_bro ^^^^^^^^^^^^🌵🌵🌵🌵🌵🌵🌵🌵_

_08 Aug 2021 10:32 AM _

_LJ Bachmann🏒🎷 @lakeb19_

_Replying to @benwiththegoodhair_

_I’ll be there in spirit. HBD legend_

_08 Aug 2021 10:40 AM _

_ben @benwiththegoodhair_

_Replying to @lakeb19_

_you’re the only mf on this site who respects me_

_08 Aug 2021 10:44 AM _

_LJ Bachmann🏒🎷 @lakeb19_

_Replying to @benwiththegoodhair_

_ <3 _

_08 Aug 2021 10:47 AM _

_Direct Message_

_10:45 AM_

_@colekol sent your Tweet_

_cole kolinsky: what am i? dead meat?_

_ben: yoooooo i thought you were like_

_ben: adulting_

_ben: y’know like college grads do_

_ben: lmaooooo_

_cole kolinsky: adulting on a sunday night?_

_ben: no on a monday morning_

_cole kolinsky: i have tomorrow morning off_

_ben: wait_

_ben: is this like_

_ben: you offering to go out_

_ben: don’t play w me kole_

_cole kolinsky: i’m not playing! & yes _

_cole kolinsky: it’s your birthday let’s hang out_

_ben: oh my god i love you_

_ben: what time???_

*

The first mistake is agreeing to go out clubbing with Cole, but Ben, in his clouded, newly twenty-one-year-old judgement, doesn’t realize that this is a mistake until it’s way too late.

And to _get_ to the end of the day, he has some hoops to jump through. An hour of church at nine in the morning is not his favorite way to start his birthday, but being home for the summer, he knows that not even his birthday can stop the Shaley family Sunday routine, so he sits his sweaty ass in a pew for an hour. They do go out to his favorite breakfast place after, which is a unique birthday-induced occurrence, so he can’t complain _that_ much, all Catholicism considered.

After church and breakfast, Brenda Shaley, super-PTA-mom, has decided that it would be a good idea to invite the entire extended family over for a mid-afternoon birthday bask, AKA a cookout, which, like, that’s cool— that happens on any Shaley family summer birthday, so it’s not _news_ — but also… like… Ben is _twenty-one_ today. And the most 21st-birthday thing that seems to be happening is when Dad taps his knee in the car on the way home from breakfast and goes, “You wanna come with me to the liquor store, Ben? You can use your ID to pay.”

So he goes with Dad to the liquor store, while Mom starts on her famous pasta salad for the DeLuca clan. In the car on the way there is when he has his Twitter exchange with Cole.

Cole is the love of his life who will never be. Like, yeah, he admittedly had a pretty bad spell of feelings for Remy sophomore year, but Remy is his best friend, the man who will never love, and that’s cool; it’s good, and Ben loves him platonically way too much to ever put their friendship into jeopardy over some unwanted, unreciprocated gay thoughts. But _Cole_ … Cole is different, somehow.

Cole has been a source of gay panic ( _pan_ -ic, if you will) ever since Ben met him through Quinn at an open mic night freshman year. Cole is not only his _type_ , but he’s honestly the closest Ben can get in his subconscious to finding a dream guy. They have a lot of similar interests, like their shared taste in really fucking good music, tattoos, stupid Internet humor, and getting stoned out in that one hidden spot by the pond on campus— but personality-wise, he and Cole couldn’t be much more different. A quiet, thoughtful introvert, Cole Kolinsky is the epitome of the mysterious, angsty artist type Ben is all too prone to catching feelings for. Their energies balance each other out, which, all gay thoughts aside, is probably the reason they’ve been such great friends since they met.

So Cole is a dream guy. He really is. But Cole is also… well, okay.

This much, Ben knows: Cole likes girls. If he comments on someone’s appearance, it’s always a girl. If he winds up leaving a party with someone, it’s always a girl. If he talks about his hypothetical future spouse, it’s always a girl. He hasn’t had any super long-term relationships while Ben has known him, but he _has_ dated here and there— and it’s always a girl.

So Cole likes girls. And Ben can’t blame him. Girls are interesting and kick-ass and totally hot. It’s just… Ben has never actually heard Cole say he’s straight. He knows he probably _is_ , and that no matter Cole’s sexuality, no one is entitled to that info, least of all Ben, but he just… he can’t help but let his mind wander a little. Thinking isn’t a crime. He gets the slightest queer vibe from Cole that seems to surpass his being trans. Ben prides himself on having a generally good gaydar.

Thus: the Cole Kolinsky problem. He’s hot. He’s talented. He’s so agreeable to be around. He’s… straight. But what if he’s not?

Given all of this information, one might be able to reasonably imagine why going out with Cole on his 21st feels like a bad idea.

But _fuck_ , if Ben isn’t a fan of bad ideas.

At the liquor store, Dad stops him in front of the beer and puts his hands on his hips. “Well,” he says, with a grin, and gestures to the alcohol like he thinks Ben is seeing it for the first time. “Your choice.”

Ben looks at him for a second, trying like hell to figure out if his father actually thinks this is the first time in his life he’s given thought to what beer he wants to drink. Since he was eighteen, he’s been allowed to have wine with the DeLuca side of the family at holidays and stuff, so obviously Dad knows he’s _had_ alcohol. But Paul Shaley, who was in a baseball frat in college, cannot honestly think that this is his son’s first brush with alcohol besides dry red wine.

Right?

“Uh…” Ben folds his arms and pretends to think. At school, as far as kegsters are concerned, they drink a lot of Natty and Bud Light, if it’s not tub juice or whatever else. When he goes out on the weekends, it’s gin or whatever anyone buys him (or Isla). For summer, he knows what the obvious _beer_ choice is, but… should he _be_ obvious?

Look, whatever. Ben is sort of an expert at lying to his parents. He shrugs and looks to Dad. “Coronas?”

Dad is still smiling. If he knows it’s not his first rodeo (Rhodey-o?), which he _has_ to, he doesn’t say a word. “You got it,” he replies, and lugs a case of Corona Light into their cart.

“I tried to convince Mom to let you take a shot with me,” Dad tells him, in the car, after they’ve secured the various necessary alcoholic purchases for a Shaley-DeLuca summer cookout. “She wasn’t sure, but we’ll see if she changes her mind when Reno shows up.”

Ben forces out a laugh and tries to remember the last time he didn’t feel so distant from his father.

“Dad, uh… I was wondering?” He has to tread carefully if he actually wants permission. It’s not that his parents really ‘tell him what to do’ anymore, but this request necessitates an infringement upon Family Time™, which is always sort of a situation. And telling Cole no would suck, because spending his night listening to loud Italians talk about the economy and various major league sports (only sometimes hockey) and the fucking president in his backyard, while _he_ awkwardly straddles the line between the “kids” (his younger cousins and brother Joey) and the “adults” (older cousins, loud Italians) is… not his idea of a lit twenty-first birthday.

Especially not when he could spend it getting sloshed in his favorite club and softcore flirting with Cole Kolinsky.

“Hm?” Dad lifts his chin, in the driver’s seat, and stops at an intersection. “Wondering what?”

“Oh, uh…” He scratches at the back of his neck, and plays with a loose seam in his jeans. They’re his good, church jeans, dark wash with only wear and tear rather than rips. “It’s just… a friend from school texted me offering to go out tonight.”

“A friend from school?” Dad repeats. He almost looks excited. “Gina?”

“Oh— no, not Gina.” Ben is well aware of his parents’ general enthusiasm about Gina, his ex-girlfriend and still-friend. He enjoys her company, but as for dating… been there, done that. She’s the ‘nice girl’ for him of his parents’ collective wet dreams.

“A girl?” Dad presses. Of course he does.

“No— no.” Ben shakes his head. “It’s, uh, Cole— you know Cole? You met him at family weekend.”

Dad squints. Ben can almost hear him thinking. Finally, a sign of life. “The Jewish one?”

Ben exhales. “Yeah,” he says, which, at least he remembered. “The Jewish one.”

“Well…” he replies. “Why don’t you tell him to come to the party? You’re welcome to have friends.”

Ben almost groans. This is the issue with being in a tight-knit family. He would rather die than invite Cole into the Catholic, Republican fuckfest that’s going to go down tonight. “Uh…” he says. “I think Cole wanted to go out, like… _after_ the cookout.”

“Oh.” Dad pauses. “To a bar?”

He shrugs, like he doesn’t already have his favorite gay bar in Providence scoped out. “I guess.”

Dad taps his hand on the top of the steering wheel for a minute, and Ben waits. Finally, he announces, “You’ll have to ask your mother.”

Great.

*

Brenda and Paul Shaley have been united in holy matrimony for twenty-eight long, Catholic years. Because of this, Ben swears they share a brain.

“Well, why don’t you invite Cole to the cookout?” Mom is peeling carrots over the sink, and has enlisted both Abby and Emma as kitchen helpers. Abby is chopping celery and looks vaguely disenchanted over it. Emma is starting on the frosting for the cupcakes she made yesterday.

“I, uh… yeah, I just—” Hovering over her by the sink, Ben cannot seriously be fighting to go out on his twenty-first birthday right now, can he? “I don’t really think Cole would want to impose like that—”

“It’s not _imposing_ if he’s _invited_ , Benny,” Mom replies, which is such a mom thing to say, right down to the childhood nickname.

“Yeah, _Benny_ ,” Abby cuts in, with a grin up from her celery, “don’t you want to spend your twenty-first birthday inviting your college friends over to see how cool your extended family is?”

“Abigail,” Mom says.

She sighs and returns to her celery. “I’m just saying.”

Abby rocks, but will it be enough? Ben watches Mom set down her carrot and move onto the next one. He really does not want to grovel, but he’s starting to think he might have to.

Then Brenda points her carrot at him and, very calmly, says, “Tell Cole to come over for dessert tonight.”

“Mom—”

“And _then_ ,” she interrupts, “you two can go out.” He’s already starting to celly as she waves the carrot at him. “ _But_! You have to be safe. I mean it. No driving!”

“Thank you!” He doesn’t even care about the dessert thing— he’ll figure that out later. “Thank you. Yes. Okay. Understood.”

“I mean it, Benjamin!”

“I know, Mom. I know. We’ll be safe.” He’s smiling too hard to be fazed by the Brenda Shaley death glare he’s receiving right now. “Promise.”

And he really does promise. But right now, he is amped as hell.

He’s going out with Cole tonight, and he is going to have a _good time_.

*

_iMessage_

_11:12 AM_

_Me: what time are you free tonight?_

_Cole Slaw: i have nothing to do all day_

_Cole Slaw: your choice_

_Cole Slaw: but you know i don’t drive right_

_Me: yes lol do you want to uber to my house_

_Me: i’d come to you but_

_Me: my parents invited you to the cookout… i would prefer to pre at your place_

_Me: you just might need to show your face so they know i’m not going out with a stripper_

_Cole Slaw: lmaoooooo_

_Cole Slaw: i can swing by at like 7?_

_Me: that sounds perfecttttttt_

_Me: consider it a date ;)_

_Cole Slaw: ahahaha_

_Me: are you prepared for how fucked up im gonna get tonight_

_Cole Slaw: yes_

_Cole Slaw: it is your 21st_

_Cole Slaw: i’ll be your chaperone_

_You loved a message_

_Me: cole kolinsky you’re my hero <3 _

*

Ben is three beers deep when Cole shows up in an Uber.

This is right around the start of a pleasant buzz. Ben knows his tolerance, and it’s high. Uncle Reno has been trying to convince him to do a shot for the past ten minutes when he sees, across the backyard fence, a cab pulling up on the curb.

“Hey, peace out, guys,” he tries to say, as he makes a break for the front door so he can beat Cole before he rings the doorbell to alert the masses. “That’s my friend.”

He has not seen Cole Kolinsky in three weeks, since they went down to Beavertail together when they both had a day off, and thus is totally unprepared for all the gay thoughts that bombard him when he pulls open the front door.

“Hey.” In ripped black jeans, Vans, and a Three Doors Down shirt over a striped long-sleeve, Cole is an entire fucking crisis for Ben’s slightly buzzed, very pansexual brain. He has his hands tucked into his pockets, and a little facial hair growing in. His wispy, brown bangs are tucked behind his ear.

Jesus actual Christ.

“Cole Kolinsky.” He tosses what little of his hair is down and flashes him a charming grin, stepping down onto the front step and going to shut the door behind him. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Cole laughs and fixes his round glasses. “Happy birthday, man.”

“Thank you.” He hangs on the edge of the front door. “I just have to get a backpack upstairs, so tell your cab to wait.”

“A backpack?”

“Yeah, it’s my cocaine and heroin.” When Cole snorts, he adds, “No, dude, it’s _clothes._ You think I’d be caught dead in the club in this?” He gestures to his church ensemble, then swings on the doorknob. “I’ll be right back—”

“Benny!” Mom’s voice from the backyard causes his soul to fly out of his body. “Bring Cole out back! We saved him a cupcake!”

Ben wants to die.

“A cupcake?” Cole’s bemused smile is so fucking cute, is should be illegal.

Ben groans. “I just want to go.”

“I don’t mind, y’know,” Cole says, gently. “Saying hi.”

Of course he doesn’t. Because Cole Kolinsky is the boy of his dreams.

“I have no idea if those cupcakes are kosher,” he mumbles, as he leads Cole through the kitchen and out towards the back door.

Cole grins sideways at him. “Do you even know what kosher is?”

“No,” Ben admits, defeatedly. “But I don’t think my sister’s cupcakes are it.

“Cole!” Brenda, who is in full tweaking hostess mode, is the first line of defense against the chaos in the backyard. “Welcome, honey. It’s nice to see you again.”

Ben needs another drink. Like, immediately. Pronto.

In the end, it takes them twenty minutes to get out of there. When Brenda releases them, he runs up to his room and gets his backpack while Cole calls another cab. On the curb, while they wait, Cole— who still looks amused— asks, “So that was your birthday party?”

Ben sighs, and glances over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “That was more like my birthday as an excuse for the extended family to congregate and argue over who would be first in line to suck Donald Trump’s dick.” Cole snorts into his hand, and because he can’t resist, Ben adds, “But not really, because being gay is wrong, obviously.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cole laughs, like he’s made a dark joke. Which he guesses he has.

Ben resists the urge to wink. “Well, someone has to be the gay cousin,” he remarks. “Maybe they think you’re my secret boyfriend, off to whisk me away for an evening of passion.”

Cole laughs again, which hurts more than it should. The Uber pulls up on the curb, and he tips his head toward the car. “Ready to rock?”

Now Ben does wink. For the moment, he doesn’t care. “Fuck yeah.”

*

The first mistake is agreeing to go out clubbing with Ben, but Cole, because he is apparently a huge idiot, doesn’t realize that it’s a mistake until Ben emerges from the bathroom in Cole’s apartment.

He spreads out his arms and spins a little. “How do I look, Coley?”

How does he _look_? He is Ben Shaley. There aren’t enough words in any language for how perfect he looks.

“The scrunchie is a perk,” Cole remarks, from the comfort of his couch. Ben’s black hair is up in its usual bun, two strands hanging loose on either side of his face, all held together by his favorite scrunchie (it’s blue and pink and yellow). He’s changed into a graphic tee, and super ripped jeans over fishnets, and those checkered Vans he’s had for as long as Cole has known him.

He’s so pretty that he doesn’t even look human.

“The scrunchie,” Ben says, stopping in front of him and grinning, “is _necessary_.”

“Right.” Cole nods up at him. “Do you want a drink?”

“Uh, _yeah_ , dude,” Ben says, “if you’re offering. What do you have?”

Cole reluctantly removes himself from the comfort of the couch, and leads Ben on the two-second walk from his small apartment’s living room area to the poorly lit kitchen. His fridge is a disgrace right now, stocked as far as food is concerned with only a bag of cherries, takeout leftovers, half a head of lettuce, and whole milk that he shouldn’t even drink because he’s definitely fucking lactose intolerant— but when he knew Ben was coming over, he went out and got a six-pack of Twisted Tea because he’s seen him have that at parties before. He pulls two bottles out and raises an eyebrow at Ben like the bottle itself is a question. Ben, who is leaning on the counter Cole sits on every morning to have his cereal, looks far too domestic and far too fucking _pretty_ in his shitty apartment right now. “You really know the way to my heart,” he says, as Cole tosses him the bottle. He catches it, because of course he does. He has goalie reflexes.

Cole is not okay. This was such a bad idea.

“So…” He hops up on the counter when they’ve de-capped their bottles. Ben does not sit on the counter, but takes the one barstool that Cole literally never uses instead. “What’s the plan?”

Ben takes a long drink and then grins. “We can hit Mingo at, like… sunset?” He tips his head toward the nearest window, which is tiny and near the ceiling. “That’s when it starts getting fun in there.”

Mingo, also known as the Flamingo, is the biggest gay bar in Providence. Cole has only been there twice, both times with Ben and Quinn and Sebastián and Remy for a drag show. They go to Boston a lot more often.

Which, actually… obviously Ben is not in drag right _now_ , but maybe that raises a question? Cole looks down to him and arches an eyebrow. “Are you…” He pauses. “Like, performing tonight?”

“Oh— _pff_ , God, no,” he replies, with a shake of his head. “I can’t perform without Quinn Cooper in a one-mile radius. He’s the brains behind the entire operation.”

That makes sense. Cole is kind of relieved, looking down at him with his hard iced tea, to know that he won’t be becoming Isla tonight. Not because Cole is opposed to Isla, but because Isla is a lot more prone to spontaneous hookups than Ben is. Not that Ben isn’t.

But Cole shouldn’t talk. He took the necessary precautions to ensure that if _he_ runs into someone tonight he might be into, he’d be able to handle that kind of situation.

That isn’t going to happen, because Ben fucking Shaley is pregaming in his kitchen, but whatever.

“Are you sleeping here?” he asks, and Ben nods.

“If that’s cool with you?” Ben pauses a second, then adds, “I don’t know how thrilled my parents would be to see me in the state I plan on ending the night in.”

Cole laughs. “Christ, Ben.”

Ben rests his chin in his hand, leaning on his counter like he belongs in this kitchen, in this apartment. Cole has only been renting it for two months; Ben has been here a grand total of one other time. He can’t think like that. “Is that sacreligious?” he says, like he’s wondering out loud. “To say ‘Christ’ if you’re Jewish.”

Cole hops off the counter, because it all feels a little too domestic for his brain’s liking right now. “Jesus was a Jew, Ben,” he replies, then beckons for him to follow. “Let’s move this party.”

“First of all,” Ben replies, falling into step behind him as they head back toward the couch, “I _know_ Jesus was a Jew. I went to my dose of CCD just the same as your Hebrew school.” He folds his tanned, tattooed, toned arms, one over the other, to add, “I was literally at church this morning.”

Cole chuckles. “Congratulations.”

“And second…” Ben surveys the living room, as they re-enter it. Cole swipes Ben’s birthday card from the coffee table, where he left it before he promptly forgot about it. “We need to have a serious talk about your interior design skills, dude.”

“Hey!” Cole cries. “What’s wrong with my interior design skills?”

Ben drops himself dramatically onto the couch. “Literally everything.” He pulls his backpack into his lap and unzips it, then nods across the room to pretty much the only decorated wall. The second day he moved in, Cole hung his trans flag on the gray wall, and plugged in his impulse-buy lava lamp next to his bluetooth speaker on the table beneath it.

Okay. Maybe it _is_ a little mismatched. But it’s his first apartment, and Ben should cut him some slack.

“Like, okay,” Ben says, as Cole takes a comfortably distant seat next to him on the couch. “That lava lamp? Is ugly.”

“ _Hey_!” he says, louder now, and pretends to be offended. “That was my act of rebellion against my mom. It’s a sign of adulting.”

Ben tuts. “Lava lamps are a fire hazard.”

He feigns a gasp. “Dude, you’re _just like her_. Did she put you up to this?”

“Oh, yeah.” Ben waggles his eyebrows. “I’m Debbie’s special agent.”

Cole eyes his lava lamp. It’s purple, and he has been known to get mesmerized by the sight of it when he’s sitting in this room spaced-out by himself. Maybe _that’s_ why Mom never wanted him to have one in his room at home.

Ben pulls a tube of eyeliner out of his bag. “Can I do my makeup on your couch or is that a big no?”

Cole’s stomach knots up. He should have known that Ben was going to do makeup, because he kind of always does when he goes out, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be any easier to deal with the sight of him looking like that.

“Yeah, dude,” he replies, once he pulls himself out of that crisis-induced trance. “Go ahead.”

Ben pulls the brush from the tube and grins. “Sweet.”

He tears his eyes away from Ben and lets them land on the speaker next to the lamp. “We need music,” he remarks.

Ben nods astutely, as he’s fishing through his backpack again. “Hell yeah, we do.” He pulls out what he must have been looking for— a compact mirror. “I’m actually relieved to be pregaming without being subjected to Quinn’s playlist.”

“Oh, God.” Cole laughs as he scrolls through his Spotify library. “He doesn’t know how to make playlists.”

“I know.” Ben pauses. Cole is way too aware of the fact that his knees are turned towards him, as they sit close on the couch. Another few inches and Cole could be pressed right up against him. But he won’t be. He can’t be. “It’s bad,” Ben adds, regarding Quinn’s playlist skills. “His music is okay on its own, I just keep telling him he has to sort it by genre, and he… doesn’t listen.”

Cole finds one of his more upbeat playlists, alt-rock mixed with electronic music, and hits shuffle. MGMT comes through the speaker, and Ben lights up like a neon sign.

“ _This_ ,” Ben says, with a grin just before he starts on his eyeliner, “is why you’re my favorite person to hang out with.”

That’s cause for one too many butterflies in Cole’s stomach. He holds eye contact with Ben for just a second, just long enough to _almost_ get lost in those green eyes. Then he tears himself away again, and knocks his bottle against Ben’s on the table before he takes a drink.

“Likewise.”

*

Even on a Sunday night, the Mingo is buzzing.

Ben likes to think maybe that’s just his power. It’s a gorgeous summer night, like the weather had his birthday in mind, and they get another Uber to go over just after sundown, like they said they would.

He and Cole wait in line at the door for a few minutes, and he bounces on the soles of his Vans against the asphalt. Above them, the sky is painted every neon color, bright orange and pink giving way to purple where the sunset ends. This is what summer nights are all about— a pleasant buzz (for now) and a friend at his side with hours stretched out before them, and for a second he forgets all about all the pan-ic that Cole induces. That blissful ignorance dissolves when he meets his hazel eyes, behind those big, round glasses, and Cole smiles at him.

 _Jesus._ Keep it together. Between the Coronas at the cookout and the hard iced tea Cole had, Ben is five drinks in. The more he drinks, the less he’ll feel responsible for his flirting. “So,” he says, sliding his real, actual ID out of his wallet. “How shook do you think Tony the hot bouncer is about to be when I show him my real license?”

Cole laughs into his hand. “Tony the hot bouncer?”

“Yeah, dude.” He has been showing Tony the hot bouncer— a buff guy who can’t be more than thirty— his fake ID for the past three years. Gone are the days of pretending to be Matt Rosetti from Newport, a wealthy, fabulously gay socialite who was fond of driving up to the Mingo from his shoreside mansion on the weekends. Tonight, he’s a new man. Ben Shaley is finally allowed to legally enter this club.

Poor, poor Tony. “I feel bad for Tony,” he remarks, to Cole, who has been legal for a year now. “He’s not gonna know what hit him.”

“Well, hopefully he’ll let it slide?” Cole looks vaguely concerned, for a second, which is adorable. “Like, now he’ll know your actual identity…”

“I’m sure he’ll be chill.” Up a few spots in line, they’ve nearly reached Tony. “It is my birthday, after all.” He taps the button he’s pinned to his shirt, for emphasis. In the birthday card he gave him an hour ago, Cole enclosed a blue button with _Birthday Boy_ written on it, which was simultaneously endearing and hilarious. _So people can buy you drinks_ , Cole explained, sitting way close to him on his couch while they listened to MGMT. _And such._

_I fucking love you, Cole Kolinksy._

He probably needs to stop saying that, but tonight, he’s too dead-set on having a good time to care.

“Maybe I should seduce him,” he adds, as he starts to see Tony over the tops of people’s heads. He’s in a blazer and has his head shaved. His skin is tan— definitely Italian. Ben knows his people. He elbows Cole. “Should I seduce him?”

Cole sucks in a breath. “ _Please_ don’t seduce the bouncer.”

Ben grins at him, and knocks his shoulder just briefly against his. “You’re no fun, cole slaw.”

“I’m supposed to be your chaperone.” Cole raises an eyebrow. “If you run off with someone before we even get in the club…”

“Aw, don’t worry.” He winks at him. “I’m all yours tonight, baby. For better or for worse.”

Cole’s cheeks go pink, which makes him wonder for just a second if he should step off, if the flirting is too much. But then again, maybe he’s pink because he’s _receptive_ to the flirting. Maybe Ben should use this night to give it a try, to leave the option open.

He is going to have a good night. And if Cole Kolinsky wants to have a good night with him… well, Ben definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that.

“Next?”

“Tony!” He saunters forward and holds out his ID. “It’s a pleasure to enter your esteemed establishment.”

Tony looks so done with his shit, and Ben is _living_ for it. He passes his license back to him after a second and sighs. “Happy birthday, _Ben_.”

Ben winks. He can’t help it. Then Tony pulls back the little rope, and he grabs Cole’s hand and pulls him into the music and the lights and the crowd.

*

The thing about Ben Shaley is this: Cole has always known that he’s beautiful.

And that’s not even in the sense of just being physically attractive, which Ben _definitely_ is. Ben’s beauty doesn’t end on the surface. Ben is charming and outgoing and _funny_ , so fucking funny, and when Cole is with him he gets all these freaking _butterflies_ in his stomach, and it’s always been that way. Cole knows that it’s always been that way.

But the thing is.

When he met Ben, and even in the years of denial that have gone by _since_ he met Ben, Cole has been pretty comfortable in the knowledge that he’s a straight guy. He’s always been into girls— hell, he came out to his mom as a lesbian a year before he came out to her properly. Girls are cute. Girls are nice. Girls give him butterflies. He knows this, has always known this. It’s comfortable for him.

Boys, for Cole… that’s never been a thing. Or at least he was sure that had never been a thing, right up until he met Ben.

Like, yeah, he paid attention to boys growing up. Sometimes because he felt like he had to, because he was expected to. But mostly he did it because he wanted to _be_ them, because the dysphoria he didn’t know was dysphoria was drawing him to them. That was how he always resolved any way he was drawn to guys over the years— that it was just their masculinity, and that he wanted to emulate that. He couldn’t have really been _into_ any of the guys who caught his attention.

And then Ben came along.

He remembers the day he met Ben. It was open mic night at school at one of the campus cafés, and he went to meet Quinn after he’d gotten up and played a couple songs, because Quinn had said he was bringing some friends from his boyfriend’s hockey team. _Oh, shit_ , his mind said, as Ben swiveled around in his chair and said hi for the first time. _That’s the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen._

And for awhile, that was all it was. Recognizing Ben’s conventional beauty wasn’t _attraction_ , he thought. It was just having eyes. But the longer they were friends, and the more time they spent together, Cole started to realize that maybe… well, maybe there was… something else.

Because his stomach started fluttering just the same as it does around girls, whenever Ben would do the casual flirting thing, the thing he does with everybody, the thing that shouldn’t be weird. And when Ben would leave the club or a party with someone, Cole would feel sort of sick, at just the thought of him being with some random person. And when Ben would flash that smile or casually throw his arm around him or fix the scrunchie in his hair, Cole would… _notice_. He would notice.

Now he feels like he notices _everything_ about Ben. And tonight isn’t helping. Which is one of the many reasons that going out with him was maybe a terrible idea. But Cole is a few drinks in, and the club seems to beat under his shoes with the bass and the flashing light, and Cole… just, _God_ , he wants to have fun. He wants to enjoy this.

He’s still calling himself straight, for now. He doesn’t feel like figuring out what these feelings are. Not tonight.

Ben shines under the neon. When he orders a drink at the bar, the sweet-talk he feeds to the pink-haired bartender pours out of him like music. “Happy birthday,” they say, as they slide him his drink, and Cole envies this stranger to the point of hate for a second, for just flirting with him like it’s nothing.

Gin and tonic secured, Ben waves the drink in the air and grins at Cole, bumping his hip sideways against his, and Cole really doesn’t stand a fucking chance, does he?

“Cheers, Coley,” he says, and then he _really_ starts drinking, and Cole figures, hell, he should probably do the same if he’s ever going to make it through the night.

*

It turns out that the fantastic thing about wearing a birthday button on your birthday is that people will buy you drinks.

It’s nice, because the more Ben drinks, the looser he feels, and he can melt into this electric crowd like he belongs right in it. Which he does, honestly. He thinks it’s maybe a sign of being newly twenty-one that he feels more at home in this huge, queer, neon party than he did all day with his family at the cookout.

And _Cole_ — holy fuck, Cole. It’s not that he’s doing anything, really, it’s more that he’s just… _here_. That he’s staying at Ben’s side, and the more the night goes on, and the louder the music feels in his ears, the more people buy him drinks, the better Cole looks. The closer Ben wants to be to him.

At the bar, he tosses back the last of whatever most recent drink this is and remarks, “I really like your outfit tonight.”

Cole looks down at his band shirt. “Mine?” He furrows his brow. His sleeves have gotten rolled up to his elbows sometime in the past hour or however long they’ve been in the club, and it’s a good look. Ben can see the tattoo on the underside of his wrist. He has one in the same place, though it’s not the same tattoo.

“Yeah, yours,” he replies, with a shrug, and for the moment doesn’t elaborate.

Between drinks, he grabs his hand and pulls him into the crowd. “C’mon, dude.” Whether Cole wants to protest, he’ll never know, because he trails him and doesn’t let go of his hand, for the moment, and that is so fucking _dangerous_ and Ben knows it, or at least would know it if he were sober, but it’s his twenty-first birthday and he absolutely fucking refuses to be sober.

“Let’s dance,” he adds, and then they do, but Cole is laughing and pink-cheeked and protesting a little.

“I’m an _awful_ dancer, Ben,” he tells him, and they’re pressed closer than they should be just by the way the crowd moves, but it’s okay. Ben doesn’t care. If Cole cares, he isn’t doing anything about it.

“It’s _fine_ ,” he tells him, because it is. “Just do what everyone else is doing.”

Cole laughs again, and the actual sound of his laugh gets lost to the music, but Ben is pretty sure he’s never seen a better sight. They’re close, maybe too close, and Ben can feel his body where they bump together every now and then, and he can smell his cologne, too. He isn’t sure what Cole is wearing, but he just— he smells nice. Ben should tell him, right? He should tell him.

He tips forward and makes like maybe he’s going to fall, and Cole grabs him by both forearms, laughing as he meets his eyes. “Careful,” he cautions, and Ben _is_ being careful.

“Oh, hey,” he hums, and leans close to his ear. “You smell good.”

Cole actually snorts, but stays close, and Ben wants to keep this exact distance between them all night long. Or maybe make it smaller. He wouldn’t mind that, either. “I’m pretty sure I smell like ass right now.”

“No, you do!” He swats him lightly on the shoulder, and feels for a second like Quinn smacking Nando, but that would be all wrong, because Quinn and Nando are dating, and he and Cole are just— they’re just friends, and that’s all they are, and Cole is straight, and—

Ben should have another drink.

Another drink, he decides, and he can fall deeper into whatever little bubble he and Cole are in tonight. He won’t push him, won’t make him uncomfortable, but he’ll leave the door open. He’ll make sure, tonight, that Cole knows where he stands. He doesn’t have an objective, but if he winds up falling into Cole Kolinksy’s bed tonight, he cannot say he would be opposed to the idea.

With him, now, in the crowd, he feels like maybe they could. Like maybe it isn’t so out of the question. Like maybe Cole really _could_ be the boy of his dreams, and that his dreams are closer than they think.

*

Cole is buzzed and confused, because he’s pretty sure Ben is hitting on him.

But that would be all wrong. It wouldn’t make sense, or even if it _does_ make sense, it wouldn’t be something that Cole should be paying attention to, because Ben hits on _everybody_ . Ben hits on the bouncer. Ben hits on the bartender. He hits on every other person who even so much as _looks_ in their direction. So it shouldn’t mean anything. Cole knows all of this. He just… he can’t stop focusing on every little comment Ben makes.

They’re sitting at the bar, after going back and forth between here and the dance floor a couple of times. Cole is not going to get as blackout drunk as it’s clear Ben is on his way to doing, but he _is_ under the influence, and he knows it, which is just another reason he shouldn’t be reading into Ben’s flirting.

But he _has_ to be flirting. He sits under all the light in this club at a barstool facing Cole, and he has a vodka cranberry in his hand that some gorgeous girl with piercings from a few seats down bought for him, and even if only for this very brief moment, he only has eyes for Cole.

“Honestly, dude,” Ben says, stirring his drink, “you could get any girl you want. I’m serious.” He’s not slurring, but his speech is a little delayed, like it takes extra time to think about what he wants to say. “If you wanted to, that is.”

Cole laughs. His face is so warm, and he wants to tell himself that it’s only because it’s a hot summer night and they’re in a packed club and he’s wearing two shirts. But when he looks at the beautiful man sitting across from him, he knows that’s not really true. He knows why he _really_ feels warm.

Ben takes a long drink before he says anything else. When his words come, he knocks his knee against Cole’s, and Cole doesn’t pull away, because he’s lost all ability to make good judgement about anything, apparently. “Cole Kolinsky,” he says, all faux-stern, like he wants his attention. It’s bold of him to assume that Cole’s attention is on anything _but_ Ben right now. Tonight. “I’m serious,” he says. “You’re hot.”

Cole’s stomach turns over, and he wants to blame it on the drinks. What he _almost_ says, wants to say, is _you’re hot, too_. But he swallows and chickens out. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Ben’s smile is more intoxicating than any liquor in this entire place. Including Cole’s own drink, which is momentarily forgotten on the bar. “Like, dude, you’re— you have really nice eyes, did I ever tell you that?” Ben throws back another drink to finish off what’s in his cup. “And you’re so fucking _talented_ , Jesus _Christ_.”

“Ben.” Cole feels unsteady on his barstool all of a sudden. They’re so close that their knees are really touching now, and he has no idea how long they’ve been sitting that way. Ben is only a few inches away from him, and he feels frozen in eye contact with him, so close and so far at the same time, and for a second— God, for one fleeting fucking second, Cole almost kisses him.

He really almost does. He can feel Ben staring right back at him, and he lets his eyes dart to his lips, and Ben even kind of leans in a little, like he wants the same thing racking Cole’s brain, spinning him at a million miles an hour.

But Cole sobers, for a second, sitting there so close to him, and thinks about _really_ kissing him. He thinks about what would happen if he closed that gap between them, kissed a boy for the first time in his life, fell into the waiting arms of a drunk and flirting Ben Shaley.

They would kiss, in this club. They would be too touchy-feely in public, and Cole would give himself up to his tipsy, sexually confused impulses. They would get a cab back to his place, and they would sleep together, and _he_ , Cole, would become another name on the endless list of people who have known Ben Shaley that way, people he’s charmed and laid and let down easy, because he _knows_ he would be let down easy in the morning when he wakes up.

Because what would happen, tomorrow morning, if he knew him like that tonight? What would happen when he woke up with Ben in his crappy apartment bed, when Ben had to pack up and go home? He would sit by his phone waiting for a text, trying to figure out how to ever begin to explain to himself what had happened the night before, and his friendship with Ben? God, forget it. It would be fucking ruined. Because Ben is going back to school for senior year in a month, and Cole has a real, actual job now, has an adult life he’s trying to build for himself, and they would just— you can’t _date_ someone who makes his whole life into a party, not when he’s still in college and smiling like the world knows his name, not when you’re a nobody in a shitty Providence apartment trying to make a music career out of nothing and he is _Ben Shaley_ , college hockey star and future architect and charmer of every human being with eyes under the sun— you can’t. You will never be what Ben needs. You will be his college friend he hooked up with on his twenty-first birthday, and that is all you will ever be.

Cole knows that if he doesn’t kiss him now, he never will. But he has to be okay with that. Because Ben flirts with everybody, and Cole is just the person he happens to be with tonight, and he doesn’t have himself nearly figured out enough yet to let himself give his entire friendship up with this beautiful boy for one night of confused and drunken lust.

So he stares at Ben across the tiny space between their barstools, and tries to figure out how to kill this moment before he realizes he doesn’t have to. “Hey, birthday boy!” calls the girl with piercings. “You want another drink?”

Ben lingers, for just a second, on Cole’s eyes before he seems to snap out of whatever weird trance they were both caught in. He swings around on his stool, whoops and hollers, gives his voice up to the noise of the crowd. “You know it!” he tells the girl.

Cole knows he’ll never kiss Ben Shaley. He _has_ to learn to be okay with that.

*

They leave the club at who knows what hour. Ben isn’t sure how many drinks in he is. He isn’t sure of much, actually, except for the fact that Cole is there.

He’s talking. He knows he’s talking. They stand outside and wait for a cab, and he’s pretty sure he’s been this drunk before but at least other times he’s been aware of what he’s saying and doing, so maybe he hasn’t. He’s hanging on a warm, lanky body, his face pressed into the shoulder of a band shirt, and he’s going on about glasses and music and hazel eyes. He’s saying something about how much he loves being around Cole, how he hopes they’ll stay friends, even now that Cole is graduated and living in the city, because don’t worry, man, hey, don’t worry— just come up to campus and we can party, okay? I have bunk beds in my room, dude. I swapped with Nando years ago. You can take the top bunk if you want. I don’t mind. We can even share a bunk and I won’t mind that, either. I don’t want to lose you, man. You’re, like, you’re a great friend, y’know? When I’m around you, I just— I feel like I’ll never really need to be around anybody else. You’re so warm, dude, are you okay? Wait, don’t let go of me. I like it. You smell good. You smell really nice. Did I mention you look really nice tonight? I’m glad we did this, Cole. I’m glad I know you. I’m really glad I know you. Thank you for tonight, dude, I’m serious. Thank you.

*

Cole unlocks his apartment door just after four in the morning.

Ben is dead weight, and he isn’t strong, but that’s okay. At least Ben has stopped talking, cut the seemingly endless stream of compliments and ramblings. He spent most of the cab ride wrapped around Cole, mumbling about his glasses or his jeans or something, and Cole is mostly okay but maybe a little too overly buzzed to panic about the way Ben has been talking to him. They’re not going to hook up, and Cole knows that much.

“Coley,” Ben hums, as Cole helps him down onto the couch in his apartment. “I’m—” He cuts himself off with a yawn. “I’m tired. Do you wanna cuddle?”

Cole fishes through his bag, finds a makeup wipe, and sits down next to him to take to his face. Ben is loose enough that he’s compliant, still hanging on him. “I think we should cuddle.”

“You’ve gotta sleep,” Cole replies. “And you need to hydrate, like. Really badly.”

He finishes with the wipe, and Ben smiles up at him from where he’s hanging on his chest. He thinks, again, that they might kiss. They don’t. The moment passes. Cole knows all these moments will pass.

Putting a drunk Ben Shaley to bed is a process. He feels a little bad that it’s his couch, but the thought of sharing his own bed with Ben tonight is a little too much to bear, and he doesn’t want to entertain the possibility. So his couch is the next best thing. He knows drunk Ben, and he knows he’ll probably be hungover.

So while Ben is in the bathroom washing up or whatever, Cole grabs his mop bucket, emptying it of his cleaning supplies, and sets it down next to the couch. He puts a water bottle on the coffee table. When Ben emerges from the bathroom, he’s in his t-shirt and boxers, and his hair is half-down, and he is super fucked up but _God_ he is still so fucking beautiful.

“Are you good to rest?” he asks, gently, feeling so much more sober than he knows he really is.

Ben nods, cuddling himself into the makeshift bed Cole has made of his couch. “I think so.” He yawns again, then nods. “I… think so.”

Cole surveys the scene, ensures he’s settled, and turns to go. He’s a few paces away, headed for his room, when he hears Ben’s slurring, sleepy voice. “Wait— Cole.”

He looks over his shoulder, and Ben is smiling with his face out of the blanket on the couch. Cole knows he’s blushing. He feels like he’s been blushing all night. “Yeah?”

Ben’s cheeks are kind of red, too. It must be the alcohol. He reaches out one hand toward him. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

It sends Cole’s whole stomach back into the butterfly routine. He walks to the couch, squeezes his outstretched hand once, and murmurs, “You’re welcome, Ben.” He pauses. “Happy birthday.”

When they part ways for the night, Cole lasts all the way to his own bed before he sits down on the edge of it, slumps backwards on the mattress, and runs his hands over his face.

He is tired. He is tipsy. A newly twenty-one-year-old Ben Shaley is drunk on his couch.

And Cole is, without a doubt, three hundred percent, head over heels in love with him.

He is so _fucked_.


	20. bisexual gang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no prompt for this one; I just love Reid Burke with my whole entire heart.  
> In which: Reid sends Cole a package in the mail.

_four years after (cole’s) graduation_ | _april_

_Instagram_

_Post by @colekol_ | _April 3rd, 2025_

_colekol: sometimes college crushes work out._

_Users Tagged: benwiththegoodhair_

_View Comments_

_cooperquinn: 🌈🌈🌈🌈_

_abbyshay.01: I’m so happy for you guys_

_hernandezzy43: Omg… Insta-official……………_

_Direct Message_

_reidingisfun sent your post_

_reidingisfun: BISEXUAL GANG???_

_colekol: ahahaha_

_colekol: as it turns out, yeah_

_reidingisfun: DUDE WTF_

_reidingisfun: This is historic_

_reidingisfun: You’re a legend and I love you_

_colekol: hahahahha i love you too_

_reidingisfun: He went to kiersey right???_

_colekol: yes he was quinn’s friend!_

_reidingisfun: Oh my god a hockey player_

_reidingisfun: You and Quinn are merging_

_colekol: i know i was surprised too_

_colekol: but i like him a lot_

_colekol: like_

_colekol: a lot_

_reidingisfun: Hahaha gay_

_reidingisfun: No but in all seriousness I’m so happy for you_

_reidingisfun: Tell me about him_

*

_5 days later_

When Cole gets home from work, there’s a package on his doorstep.

He stops, with his key in the door, and squints down at it. It’s in a small bubble mailer, so whatever’s inside can’t be that big or that heavy. He doesn’t _remember_ ordering anything, but he guesses he can’t entirely rule out the possibility of ordering something when he was half-asleep or otherwise delirious.

Is it even his? This _is_ his door, small as his apartment beyond it is. He kneels and turns it over. It’s addressed to him, alright— and the return address is just Amazon Fulfillment Services. _Great_. He made a phantom purchase, probably of something he doesn’t need. He tucks it under his arm, finishes unlocking his door, and walks into his apartment, shutting it behind him.

It’s sort of cold in here, because even though it should be spring by now, it’s pretty chilly outside, and he really has to talk to his landlord about the climate control system in this place. He thinks the only reason he hasn’t noticed it more is because he’s spent probably half of the nights of the week— maybe more than that— at Ben’s apartment, for the past couple of months. He doesn’t even know why he pays rent here anymore. He and Ben might as well be living together, with the way things are going.

Cole hangs his jacket by the door, then walks through the living room and hops up onto the kitchen counter, where he drops his keys and grabs the scissors from the junk drawer. A quick cut into the top of the bubble mailer, and he can rip the small package open to peer inside.

At first, it looks like some kind of article of clothing, maybe a t-shirt. But when he reaches in to fish out the contents, the material is too smooth and too thin to be a shirt, or at least any practical shirt. He yanks it all the way out of the packaging, and several feet of blue, pink, and purple fabric fall down and spread out for him to see more clearly.

 _Oh_. Something warm settles in Cole’s chest. It’s a bi pride flag.

He definitely didn’t order this for himself. Like, yeah, he has his trans flag in the living room, but he’s had that for _years_ ; Mom got it for him to bring to college. But calling himself bi is still pretty new— a few months old by now but still _relatively_ new— and he knows that even half-asleep, high, or otherwise out-of-it Cole wouldn’t make this kind of random purchase for himself. He buys, like, vinyl records and band shirts, in those situations.

He’s trying to pin this on someone— Mom or maybe Ben, but why would either of them send him something in the mail when he sees them both on such a regular basis? As he’s theorizing, though, he notices that a piece of paper fell onto the ground when he pulled the flag out of the mailer, which he figures probably has the answer. He jumps off the counter, leaves the flag, and grabs the little paper square.

That’s where he finds the answer.

_happy two months early pride bitch_

_xo -reid_

_Oh_. Cole laughs out loud, for no one to hear. He tucks the note into his pocket and goes right for his phone. For no reason at all, he feels like he’s about to cry. But in a good way.

He doesn’t love talking on the phone, but he feels like this warrants an actual call, so he dials first. It rings three times before the other line picks up.

“Cole motherfucking Kolinsky,” Reid says. It’s a little surreal when you’re friends with a famous person, because you know their voice from your own personal relationship but also from, like, Saturday Night Live. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hey, dude.” Cole jumps back up onto the counter and pulls a knee to his chest. “I got your package.”

“Oh!” As usual, there’s a grin in Reid’s voice. “You really gotta love Amazon Prime. Those fuckers have everything. And also they own my ass.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Cole laughs, picking up the flag again and holding it up to the light through his kitchen window. “It, uh— this means a lot to me.”

“Hey, you’re welcome.” Reid pauses. This is the first time they’ve spoken on the phone in awhile, though they text from time to time. Aside from their conversation about Ben on Instagram a few days ago, he hasn’t really talked to Reid about his new relationship. “I’m happy for you; I’m serious.”

“Thank you,” Cole repeats. The faint urge to cry is still there, which is funny because he’s in a perfectly good mood. “It took, uh… a lot of figuring out, but I’m glad I got here.”

“Well, I might be slightly biased,” Reid says, “but bisexuals _are_ the superior race, so…”

Cole laughs into his hand, then pulls his other leg up onto the counter and reclines backward a little. “Hey, how are you, anyway?” he asks, because you might as well catch up if you have one of the country’s most popular comedians on the phone. “How's Bri and everything?”

“Oh, she's fantastic,” Reid replies. “And thank you for asking.”

“How, uh…” he continues. “How far along is she now?”

“Six months, give or take.” Reid pauses. “She’s due the first of August, but I keep thinking it would be funny if she wound up a little late and it happened on my birthday.”

Cole snorts. “You _want_ to share a birthday with your firstborn child?”

“Think about it,” Reid says. “I can constantly hold it over their head that they stole my birthday from me.”

Cole shakes his head at the ceiling of his kitchen. “You’re a conniving asshole.”

“Thank you.” Reid still sounds like he’s grinning. “That’s the idea.”

In the end, it winds up to be a nearly hour-long phone conversation— parenting talk turns to music talk and then more talk about Ben, and all in all, Cole is glad he called. Because even when your friend lives a good little while away, and a totally different life than you, it really is good to catch up. This train of thought makes Cole realize that he’s becoming more and more like a suburban adult every day, but he… kind of _is_ an adult, now. He thinks he’s okay with growing up, because growing up is being good to him.

“Hey, don’t be a stranger,” Reid says, as they’re going to hang up the phone. “Keep me updated on your life, man. I miss you.”

Cole hangs his head; he still feels warm. “I miss you, too,” he replies. “And I will. You do the same.”

When they hang up, Cole is _really_ glad he didn’t text him instead.

He picks up the flag from his counter, grins at it for a second, and then snaps a picture off to send to Ben.

_iMessage_

_You sent a picture_

_Me: i got this in the mail from reid_

_Ben loved a picture_

_Ben: oh WOW i love it baby_

_Ben: that was so cool of him_

_Me: yeah hahaha_

_Me: he says the bisexuals need to unite_

_Me: or something like that_

_Ben: what a legend_

_Ben: you coming over for dinner tonight?_

_Me: yeah_

_Me: i wouldn’t miss it <3 _

_Ben: okay sweet_

_Ben: see you soon😘_


	21. beautiful stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt here! I just have never shown this before, and given that it's a slightly important even in both Ben and Cole's lives, I figured I should.  
> In which: Ben meets Quinn's friend at a campus open mic night.

_ freshman year  _ | _f_ _ebruary_

Tonight is Ben’s fourth open mic night at the Bluegrass Coffee Company.

Well, maybe he should amend that. To say that makes it sound like he’s playing or performing something, which he’s not. He never has, as cool as the idea sounds. He loves playing his guitar, but he’s just not jazzed enough about his singing skills to get up and be a one-man show in front of people. He has, like,  _ mad _ respect for people who do that on a regular basis— he’d just prefer to be the center of attention between the pipes, and not in front of a mic.

But still. He loves going to open mic at Bluegrass. The ambience is just right. Every other Thursday, they dim the lights at 7:30, and set up a mic on a stand and a stool on the little stage against the back wall. You can sign up online for a slot, and people do all kinds of stuff—  _ mostly _ music, but you get the odd poetry reading or performance by that one Irish step dance club on campus that has like ten members. When Ben has nothing to do on a Thursday night, he walks from the dorm to Bluegrass, orders a mocha latte with almond milk (and occasionally also a white chocolate macadamia cookie), and sits at his favorite table to just vibe for an hour and a half.

So tonight, that’s where he finds himself. The mood is just right, and the only thing that makes it different from any other open mic night is that he’s not alone.

Well, okay. Sometimes LJ comes with him to these, so he’s not alone  _ then _ either. But tonight, at his favorite table, there is a distinct presence of friends— Nando and Quinn across the table, and Remy in a seat directly next to his.

This was Quinn’s idea. This morning, he texted into their four-person group chat bright and early, asking who wanted to go to open mic tonight. Nando, as designated simp, said yes right away, and Ben, who is always down to vibe for any reason, did not need convincing. Remy was slightly reluctant because he had homework, but Remy is sitting at the table next to him right now with his nose buried in a medieval history textbook, so Ben guesses he got the best of both worlds.

“So… I don’t get it, Q,” Ben says, wrapping his hands around his coffee. “Why aren’t you in the clutches of the theatre program tonight?”

Quinn shrugs, with a little smile, and remarks, “It was a tech-only rehearsal. They’re building set pieces.”

“Riiiight.” Ben nods and takes a drink. The coffee is perfect, because it literally always is here. It’s the magic of Bluegrass. “Well, if you say so.”

“I do say so!” Quinn lifts his head high like the technicalities of his rehearsal schedule are a very big deal. To him, Ben guesses, they definitely are. “A few of my friends are performing tonight. That’s why I wanted to come.”

Ben looks to the stage, where a girl with pink hair is doing some super intense slam poetry about a topic Ben is not entirely sure of. “Is that one of your friends?”

“No,” Quinn replies. “I don’t know her. But she’s very passionate.” He’s definitely correct there. Ben watches her for a moment, then turns back to the table in time for Quinn to say, “A friend of mine is on next, I think.”

“Wow, you’re the big man on campus, huh?” Ben chirps, leaning back in his chair. “All these ‘friends of yours.’”

Quinn laughs and leans into Nando’s arm, which is tossed around his shoulders. “Contrary to what you may believe, Ben, I  _ do _ have friends in the drama club.”

The friend Quinn refers to  _ is _ on next, as it turns out, because Quinn mumbles as much when he walks onstage. Ben doesn’t know the guy, but he’s a senior drama club kid, and he winds up doing a stand-up comedy set that is actually genuinely very funny. It gets the whole room laughing a lot; even Remy looks up from his book and becomes a captive audience. When he gets offstage, Ben is still chuckling into his coffee. “Wow, Quinny, you know that guy?”

“I do know that guy!” Quinn flashes a grin. “He’s in the show with me. You should come and see it, Ben; the character he plays is also very funny.”

“Oh, relax, you little PR machine,” Ben replies. “ _ Obviously _ I’m coming to see the show.”

Quinn’s smile turns self-satisfied. “That’s the right answer.”

“And Remy’s coming with me.” He claps a hand onto Remy’s shoulder, which makes him jump, since he’s back to the books now that senior guy is offstage. “Right, Rem?”

“Uh, sure.” Remy is definitely not paying attention, but he flashes a thumbs-up. “Whatever you say.”

Ben looks to Quinn and nods. “He’s coming.”

“You’re very kind, Ben,” Quinn says. “Thank you.”

“Rem,” Nando says all of a sudden, “what are you actually reading right now?”

“It’s just my homework,” Remy replies, with a shrug, not looking up. “It’s about Charlemagne.”

“Right,” Nando says, slowly. “Because I know what that is.”

“It’s not a what,” Remy says, flipping to the next page in his book. “It’s a who. He was one of the great medieval kings. He united western Europe.”

Ben kind of loves when Remy goes into full history nerd mode. It’s wholesome, good content.

For the next few minutes, Ben just chills. He pulls the cookie he bought out of the paper bag and finishes it off in a solid thirty seconds flat, then gazes wistfully at the service counter wondering if he should go up and order another one while some girl plays the violin in the background. Remy keeps reading, and the guy who was onstage comes over to talk to Quinn for a couple of minutes. Quinn introduces the three of them to him— Reid, from Wisconsin, a double history and theatre major. He chirps Quinn— a fantastic thing to witness, for sure— about how he’s finally meeting the famous Sebastián, and then talks to Remy about the history department for another few minutes before he goes off and meets up with his girlfriend at another table.

Ben finishes his coffee eventually, and keeps looking at the counter. There’s almost always a line in here; its length fluctuates minute by minute, but he’s decided that he  _ really _ wants a cookie, so he waits for there to be an opening at the register and then gets up. Remy grabs his sleeve, as he’s going. “Are you ordering something?”

“Yeah.” He looks down at him, and Remy lets go of his sleeve to ask, “Can you get me an Americano? I’ll pay you back.”

Ben just looks at him for a second, then folds his arms and remarks, “Y’know, maybe the espresso is why you don’t sleep?... Just a thought.”

Remy rolls his eyes. “Maybe your face is why I don’t sleep.”

Ben gives him a noogie, then walks to the register and orders Remy’s drink with his cookie. The cookie, they give him right away, so he leans against the wall by the service counter and eats it while he waits for the coffee to come out.

He’s mid-bite of cookie euphoria when he hears the sweet sweet sound of acoustic guitar.

It’s not the first time he’s heard it at an open mic; plenty of people get up and play and sing or both, but he’s pretty sure it’s the first he’s heard it tonight. It’s a nice sound, too, and what’s better than that is he knows the song almost right away— Today by Smashing Pumpkins. He hums to the instrumental at the outset and waits for the lyrics to kick in.

When they do, the singer has a nice voice— a guy’s voice, soft and a little raspy, like an indie singer on the radio. Ben hums along with that, too. He wouldn’t be able to do this song justice, at least not vocally. He’s never been a singer, but  _ God _ does he live for that guitar shit.

Ben finishes the cookie by the first chorus. He needs to chill, but it’s whatever; Bluegrass has  _ really good _ cookies. Remy’s drink comes out not long after that, so he grabs it and turns around to go back to his table, still vibing to the music.

That’s when the problem sets in. Because that’s when he gets a load of the guy on the stage.

Ben is not the kind of person to be all cheesy about first sights. Love at first sight is not a real thing,  _ at all _ , and yeah, he believes in  _ love _ , just not the kind of love you see in movies. Life isn’t a movie. Not everything is cheesy and perfectly timed.

But  _ holy shit _ , that guy on the stage is  _ cute _ .

He gets back to the table with minimal incident, and barely hears Remy’s thank you when he slides him his coffee. He’s too busy watching the stage. Maybe it’s the music, or maybe it’s the voice, or maybe it’s the look, or— everything at once, is what it probably is. Because  _ wow _ .

It’s just… the guy on the stage is exactly his type. That’s it. That’s all. Ben can count the things about him, starting with the guitar in his lap as he perches up on the stool. He has wispy brown hair with bangs just past his chin; a green beanie covers most of it, and he has glasses with big, circular lenses perched on his pale nose. He’s wearing a big flannel open over a Nirvana shirt with ripped jeans and— get this— the  _ exact fucking pair  _ of Docs Ben owned in high school before they got too small.  _ That  _ has to be some kind of good sign. Even though this guy is a whole-ass stranger and he knows nothing about him except a.) he’s fucking gorgeous, and b.) he does a mean cover of this song.

He shakes himself out, because the guy is now on the second chorus and Ben has been staring since he sat down. He looks back at his friends— Remy is still writing, and Nando is simping (read: giving Quinn heart eyes while Quinn isn’t looking). He isn’t  _ going _ to say anything about this guy until he notices that Quinn is a particularly captive audience right now. He’s smiling up at the stage, nodding to the beat of the song. Quinn doesn’t super pay attention to every single open mic performer, but he was exactly this captive when Reid was on the stage. (Not that the rest of the room wasn’t, but still.)

Ben takes a shot in the dark. “Q,” he says, which gets his attention. Ben tilts his head to the stage and feels his bun tip that way. To Quinn, he asks, “Who is that?”

Quinn folds his hands under his chin and smiles. “That’s my fake best friend!”

Ben furrows his brow, and looks from Quinn, to the guy, and then back to Quinn. “Your—” It takes him a second, but then, based on the bemused smirk on Quinn’s face, he realizes— the boy is, as has been frequent lately, entirely in spring musical mode. Ben only knows a little about the plot of  _ Dear Evan Hansen _ , but he knows that faking friendship is, like, a major component. “What’s his  _ name _ , Quinn,” he tries.

“Connor,” Quinn says, still laughing at himself, and then, finally, adds, “But actually, it’s Cole.” It sounds like some kind of drama club inside joke that Ben isn’t in on, and he looks back to the stage to watch the guy again. Cole.

“Do you know him?” Quinn is saying, and his voice barely registers as being directed at him, but Ben manages to respond anyway.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, and then feels Nando’s eyes on him and realizes he’s going to get chirped in about two seconds if he doesn’t provide some explanation for randomly asking the cute guy onstage’s name. “I thought I did, though,” he lies, to cover his ass.

“Well, he’s a music major,” Quinn supplies. “You may have run into him once or twice.”

It’s true that Ben does like chilling with music majors, but he knows he’s definitely never run into Cole. Because if he had, he would have remembered.

He watches him again. Cole has both boots pulled up and resting on different levels of the stool onstage, and he looks mostly at his guitar as he sings but occasionally casts his eyes across the café. When he sings the chorus of the song, Ben’s heart skips a beat. It’s unexplainable. He’s mesmerized, and he knows he might be staring, but Cole is onstage and he’s in a little spotlight, so it’s not like he doesn’t want people to look at him. And what can it hurt to just sit here and admire, right?

Like, yeah. He’s cute. He’s really cute, and his guitar is beautiful, and he does a great cover of the song. Ben sits there and listens and soaks it in, and when he finishes, Cole smiles thinly, rocking back from the mic for a second when he strums his last chord. Ben contributes to the open-mic-typical smattering of applause through the café, and he sees Quinn clap, too.

“Thanks, guys,” Cole says, into the mic, and his speaking voice gives Ben butterflies, which is just great, really. At least it’s over. He watches Cole leave the stage and shakes himself out of his trance. There is literally no use catching feelings for someone he doesn’t even know.

“Wow,” Quinn says, “he’s really good!”

Nando looks down at Quinn and grins a little. “But… haven’t you heard him sing in rehearsal?”

“Well, of course,” Quinn replies, “but that was a lot different from hearing him sing theatre music.”

Remy nods, and it’s sort of unclear if he’s nodding at his Charlemagne reading or at what Quinn is saying, but he nods nonetheless.

“Cole wants to record his own music one day,” Quinn supplies, sounding very much like a mom unintentionally embarrassing her child at a family party. “He and Reid told me I should come to open mic tonight.”

“He has such a nice guitar sound,” Ben says, and he knows he sounds kind of dreamy when he says that, but before either Nando or Remy can chirp him, Quinn raises a hand high above his head and waves to something past his shoulder.

“Cole, over here!” Quinn calls, and Ben’s soul leaves his body.

Oh fuck. Oh shit oh shit oh fuck. He loves Quinny’s dramatic, ginger ass, but he isn’t sure he’s equipped to be introduced to the guy he just caught softcore feelings for over a song. He downs the rest of his drink in an effort to drown the gay panic— maybe Cole won’t hear Quinn? But it’s too late. Cole walks up from behind him, guitar strapped into a case around his back, and waves. “Hey, Quinn.”

“Cole, that was great!” Quinn cries. “You’re a wonderful guitar player.”

Cole bows his head with a gentle smile, in classic musician’s gratitude. “Thank you.”

Ben wants to compliment him on the cover, but he’s trying to gauge whether Quinn is going to do an introduction. He doesn’t want to try to talk to him if Cole is going to immediately walk away. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long, because Nando— who apparently already knows him— flashes a friendly grin and says, “Hey, dude.”

“Hi, Sebastián,” Cole replies, and Ben is stupidly jealous for a split second of the fact that his best friend got to meet this guy before he did. But then again, Nando  _ is _ , like, dating Quinn and everything.

“Cole,” Quinn says, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward, “these are my friends, Sebastián’s teammates Ben and Remy.” He gestures to each of them in turn, and Cole waves.

“Hello,” Remy says, with the briefest nod up from his book. Fucking Remy. Ben loves that dork ass so much. But he’s so much more interested in meeting Cole right now than chirping Remy for being a dork ass.

“‘Sup, man?” For Cole, he tries a grin, to lay on the charm. Cole’s smile back is almost shy, but so fucking cute.

“Nice to meet you,” Cole murmurs, and Ben is in  _ trouble _ .

“You, too,” he replies, leaning back in his chair. “And by the way, I am  _ seriously _ a fan of your choice in cover songs.”

“Oh— thank you!” Cole lights up, another familiar musician thing, and Ben knows he’s tapped into a good topic, which could either be fantastic or dangerous depending on how much more quickly this makes him catch feelings. “I like the Smashing Pumpkins. I’ve been trying to cover songs that people might know, so it’s nice to, uh— know that it reached at least one person.”

“Oh, dude, for  _ sure _ ,” he says, and then of course Quinn gestures to the chair Cole is standing in front of— the chair directly next to Ben— and butts in with another resurgence of mom energy.

“Do you want to sit, Cole?” he asks.

“Oh—” Cole puts his hand on the chair and looks to Quinn. “Is nobody sitting here?”

“Well, now you are,” Ben says, and that gets a little  _ laugh _ out of him, which is just— great. It’s great. Cole pulls the chair out, puts his guitar case very gently on the ground by his feet, and sinks down between Ben and Quinn.

Cool. Okay. Nice. Ben can do this. He will not gay panic. The word panic is not in his vocabulary.

“So,” he says, leaning his elbow on the table and turning Cole’s way. “Uh—”

“Wait, you two!” Quinn interrupts, and Ben is going to kill him later. “You have something in common.”

Cole looks to Quinn. “We do?”

“Well, I play guitar—” Ben starts to supply, but Quinn interrupts again with infinitely more specific information.

“Yes,” Quinn says, holding his chin high proudly, like he’s accomplished something by introducing them. “You’re from the same city.”

No way. “Dude— for real?” He meets Cole’s eyes, which, by the way, are hazel behind those big, round glasses, and not at all helpful in the Don’t Gay Panic objective. “You’re from Providence?”

“Yeah!” Cole grins again. “You are, too?”

“Dude, fucking—  _ yes _ — Rhode Island gang!” He bumps his fist and does his best not to combust in his seat, because of  _ course _ the cutest guy he’s met so far on this campus is from the same fucking town he is. “Are you from, like, the city proper, or—?”

“I live in Elmhurst,” Cole says.

“No shit,” Ben cries. “I’m in Federal Hill.”

“Oh, wow!” Cole fixes his beanie. “Where’d you go to high school?”

“Central High downtown.”

“ _ Ohhh _ .” Cole nods. “Okay. Yeah. I went to Mount Pleasant.”

“Would you look at that,” Quinn muses, and Ben is  _ going _ to kick his ginger ass later. “The Rhode Island people of the world are uniting…”

“Yeah, we’ll fucking unionize.” Ben leans forward on the table to make  _ I’m watching you _ hands at Quinn. “And kick the entire Midwest’s ass.”

Cole nods again. “Good idea.”

Quinn gets back to being gay with Nando, which is good because that’s his regularly scheduled activity, and leaves Cole to his devices. Which means he’s all Ben’s. And that is so scary. But also so good. Ben meets his eyes and holds forward his hand, for a proper introduction. “Ben Shaley,” he tells him.

Cole shakes his hand, with that shy smile resurfacing, and says, “Cole Kolinsky.”

Something clicks, right then. They talk for an hour, until open mic ends.

And from that point on, Ben is absolutely and completely fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading this and then right away reading [chapter 16 of this collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199399/chapters/62060692), in that order, is fun. Highly recommend.


	22. i've been waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't do this often, but friends: it is borderline imperative that you listen to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BL7AfSivSc) while you read this fic. I say this because I wrote it to the song, and because it's the song that's actually within the text. It will enhance your experience. Trust me on this. The vibes are just right.  
> Anyway, in which: Ben finds Cole up for a midnight snack.  
> [Original prompt: Cole staying up late listening to music and eating cereal in the dark early in the bencole living together relationship. Rhodey goes to get water and nearly has a heart attack.](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/627021377643380736/concept-cole-staying-up-late-listening-to-music)

_ three years after graduation  _ |  _ june _

Ben wakes up in the middle of the night, and the first thing he notices is that he’s alone.

The second thing he notices is that it feels weird to  _ be _ alone. Which is a really nice feeling.

But still, he  _ is _ alone. When he rolls over and looks at the digital clock next to his bed— the only thing in the bedroom that glows, at this time of night, unless you count the cityscape of Providence out the window— he finds 1:03 AM as the time.

A few things come to mind, then. First, Cole isn’t here. He could be in the bathroom, or he could be up altogether. They’ve lived together for over a month, and already Ben has learned that sometimes, when your boyfriend is a songwriter, inspiration strikes in the middle of the night, and you will wake up to find him scrawling lines in notebooks by lamplight in his studio. Wherever he is, he can’t be  _ far _ , and Ben decides he’ll lay here to wait it out, just in case Cole needs him.

But then a second thing comes to mind— he’s kind of thirsty. He tries to just lay there for a minute and see if it will pass, if maybe this is just the kind of late-night wakeup where you’re conscious for a few minutes and then pass out again, but… yeah, nope. Okay. A few minutes alone in bed and he knows he should just get up and get a drink. Cole is up anyway.

So Ben rolls over, gets out of bed, and throws on a pair of boxers before he shuffles his way to the bathroom door. He peeks inside and throws on the dim shower light, but Cole isn’t in there, so he leaves their bedroom altogether and makes his way into the dark kitchen.

Ben has maybe watched too many horror movies in his lifetime, because when he sees Cole in the kitchen, he almost jumps out of his skin. Cole is sitting on the counter, facing away from him, shirtless and in sweatpants— which is a very nice sight normally, but the stark pale of his skin in the dark makes him look for a split second like a ghost or at least a very menacing figure.

The initial shock passes, and Ben lets out his breath. “Babe,” he whispers, as he approaches him. “You scared me.”

But Cole doesn’t respond— he’s hunched over and moving, and the closer Ben gets to him, the more his eyes adjust to the dark so he can see details. Cole didn’t hear him, he realizes, and he knows that because he has earbuds in, with his phone sitting on the counter next to him. And he’s—  _ eating _ , Ben sees, as he stops at the edge of the counter. Cole is eating a bowl of cereal.

At one in the morning. In his kitchen.

Ben loves him so much, but he wants to laugh at the sight. He wonders if he should be concerned. Cole loves all of these things separately— eating cereal, sitting on Ben’s counter, listening to music, but… in the middle of the night?

He realizes, as he stands there, that there’s no good way to get Cole’s attention without scaring him. He’s trying to figure out what to do when Cole does the work for him; he puts down his cereal bowl and goes to pick up his phone. He turns up the screen, but then must see Ben out of the corner of his eye, because he jumps and goes, “Oh!”

“ _ Sorry _ , baby, sorry.” Ben speaks at a slightly higher volume, but still feels like he shouldn’t talk full voice. It’s the middle of the night, after all. “I’m sorry.”

Cole pulls out an earbud. He looks shaken as in surprised, but not distressed. “How long have you been standing there?” he asks. His voice is raspy from sleep, and Ben would be lying if he said it wasn’t the easiest sound to fall in love with.

“Only a second.” He reaches to graze Cole’s elbow, just gently, with one hand. “Are you okay?”

Cole nods. “I’m okay.” He pushes the long part of his hair out of his face, then picks up his bowl again and says, “I just wanted cereal.”

Ben chuckles, and steps forward to rest one hand on either side of his waist. Together, they look down at the cereal bowl. He can’t tell what kind it is, in the dark, but it smells fruity. “Midnight snack?”

“Yeah.” Cole pauses, then dips his spoon into the bowl and crunches on a bite. It looks like he’s down to his last couple of spoonfuls. “Trix,” he adds.

“Aw, silly Coley,” Ben mumbles, running his thumb up his ribcage. “Trix are for kids—”

“Shut up,” Cole laughs, and then finishes off the rest of the bowl in two more spoonfuls. He sets it aside and takes a little breath before he adds, “I just… woke up and was hungry.”

“Yeah?” Ben steps forward a little, right up to the counter, and wraps his arms all the way around him. “You’re feeling okay, though?”

Cole hesitates for just a second, but nods. “I’m… okay,” he says, and then presses forward to give him a kiss that tastes a little too much like sugary cereal. Ben is willing to forgive the taste, but still.

“Come back to bed, babe,” he tells him, as Cole leans against his chest. “I’ll cuddle you.”

Cole laughs a little, and hooks his arms around Ben’s neck. When he exhales, Ben can feel his breath, warm where he’s snug to his bare chest. “But I like this song.”

“What?” Ben forgets, for a second, that he’s wearing earbuds, and then, when he remembers, adds, “How long have you been out here, if you felt a soundtrack was necessary?”

“A soundtrack is always necessary,” Cole mumbles, sleepily, against his chest, and then adds, “I guess it’s been… twenty minutes?”

“Mm.” Ben squeezes him around the waist, then pulls back to look him in the eye— or to do that as best he can, in the dark. “You should come back to bed.”

Cole leans forward, to rest their foreheads together, and Ben doesn’t move. “Just a minute,” he urges, so Ben complies.

Ben can’t hear the music, but Cole hums a little— maybe a noise he’s not even conscious he’s making. Ben doesn’t recognize the melody. He kisses the side of his face, then lets go of him and leaves him to his music for a second while he brings the cereal bowl over to the sink. It can wait until morning to be washed.

When he turns back to Cole, he’s scrolling through his phone, the little screen glow lighting up his pale face. He’s not wearing his glasses, so he squints at the screen, but he’s smiling halfway, which is a sight so genuinely beautiful Ben kind of has to take a second.

He’s had weeks to get used to this, but it’s still the best kind of new— Cole is sitting on his counter in the middle of the night, and he’s here to stay. He’s Ben’s. They’re home.

Cole looks up from his phone, and his smile grows. He stretches out a hand, spreads his fingers out, and waits. Ben threads his fingers in the offered hold, and then closes the distance between them to kiss him gently. He holds his face in one hand, and when they come up for air, Cole is holding up his other earbud.

“Here,” he says, and then presses the earbud into his hand, so Ben puts it in. Cole looks down at his phone and presses play, then smiles up at him and touches his cheek to whisper, “This song makes me think of you.”

When the music comes, it’s gentle guitar strums, and Ben doesn’t know this song— but Cole sways, gentle and content, to its beat, and he bows his head to listen. Cole threads his fingers into his hair, smoothing it down where it falls on his shoulders.

_ Staring at the clouds, looking for a silver lining _

_ I was caught in a cocoon but now you got me feeling butterflies _

Ben has loved Cole for a long time, and for that long time he’s known through and through how much of an artist Cole is at heart— it’s clear tonight, in this dark kitchen, as he watches him listen to the song with him. Cole’s eyes are closed, and he moves, so subtly, to the music as it ebbs and flows. He taps his hand, resting at Ben’s shoulder blade, to the beat of the guitar.

_ Dreaming in the lows, I never thought I’d see this high _

_ Now I’m shooting for the moon, you’re calling me a lunar light _

It only takes Ben a minute of listening to know what he wants to do. “Cole,” he mumbles, tightening his grip on his hand. Cole opens his eyes to look up at him. He’s worried for a second that it might break the moment, but the moment hangs just as sure between them, with the gentle music through the earbuds.

Ben holds up his hand and whispers, “You wanna dance?”

_ And all this shade is illuminating _

_ And all those love lines are taking shape _

Cole’s half-smile widens a little. He holds tight to his hand. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Ben breathes, and then lifts him carefully by the waist off the counter. “Come here,” he says, once he has him on level ground, and then it’s easy.

Cole wraps up in him, ski n to skin, and it’s probably not proper dancing form but it’s the only way Ben ever wants to dance for the rest of his life.

_ And all my worries, disintegrating _

_ And I’ve been waiting, I’ve been waiting _

Ben feels him breathe out with his head on his shoulder. “I love you,” Cole says, abruptly, just loud enough to be heard over the quiet music.

Ben kisses his hand, holds it to his face. “I love you, too.”

It’s one in the morning, and Cole is in his arms, and he is never going to let go.


	23. sappy prompt: nando & ben

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlets with titles like "sappy prompt: name & name" will be from [the following list](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/630522113330233344/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list) on my tumblr! There are going to be a lot of these, so bear with me.  
> In which: Ben and Nando are best friends. That's it. That's the ficlet!  
> [Original prompt: 15. "Please marry me."](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/631707401929834496/15-for-platonic-nando-and-ben-because-its-not-gay)

_ sophomore year _ | _march_

Nando is making a mess of the kitchen.

At least he knows it. And it’s definitely not the first time this has happened. He’s lived in his room at the house on Beech Street for almost an entire school year now, and he’s completely aware of his own tendency to turn cooking space into a war zone. He can’t help it! It’s the allure of a kitchen existing downstairs from him, and a kitchen he only has to share with five other people, no less. Yeah, the freshman boys’ dorm  _ had _ a kitchen, but a gross communal kitchen in a dorm with 200 other guys is a lot different from a house kitchen he can utilize for hours at a time and not get any shit for it.

That’s why he makes a mess in here. And he knows it. Even if he  _ weren’t _ aware of it, Quinn would have definitely brought it to his attention by this point, because Quinn will not hesitate to start a bickering argument about this exact type of thing as if they’ve been married for 40 years. (Which Nando loves.) He figures it’s better to  _ know _ something like this about yourself than to live in total ignorance about it.

So, anyway: he’s making a mess of the kitchen. In his defense, he’s making a messy meal. It’s a Thursday afternoon, sunny and warm (or at least warm for March in New England), and the weather has spurred him into the exactly right mood to make a big dinner. There’s also maybe the added motivation of his one class tomorrow having been cancelled, so today is basically his Friday. And also, he was hungry.

Whatever. The point is, he’s making empanadas, and anybody who takes two steps through the front door of Beech right now would totally know it, because the evidence is everywhere.

There’s flour all over the counter from when he was making the dough. The three separate pans he used to make the filling are stacked up in the sink, yet to be washed. There’s a pan of oil getting ready to heat up on the stove, and just for good measure, as if this weren’t enough food, he’s even making beans and rice, which requires two  _ more _ pots, both of which are in use right now on other stove burners.

The empanadas themselves, which have yet to be fried, are all on a cookie sheet, separated by wax paper. There are a lot of them, but Beech is home to six hungry athletes plus possibly one more if Remy comes over, which he almost definitely will. Nando wants to save at least a few of them for Quinn, too, even though he won’t be at dinner.

Who said you can’t have a big family dinner on a Thursday night? Nobody. Literally nobody. This is college, and he’s living his best life.

Beech is empty, at least for the moment, which is even more enabling. Nando has music on, as loud as he wants it to be. He thinks he knows where everybody is, too, which is helping him time dinner. Jordy has debate team on Thursdays, and Teegs said something about going to the gym. Remy’s in the library, and Ben and Sam both have classes that should be out soon. Marc is probably with that one girl he’s been trying to wheel lately.

So everybody is accounted for, and he has the house to himself, which is how he wound up cooking. Nando turns up the heat on the oil, and waits. His shuffle switches songs, and he bops around the disaster scene of a kitchen to the steady beat. The sun through the window, though it’s on its way to setting, still warms him up, brightens his mood.

It’s a good afternoon.

He’s not quite frying yet when the front door opens, but he  _ is _ stirring the pot of beans, reaching over to the back burner on the stove to get to them. It’s starting to smell good— everything is. Beech Street smells like home right now.

Not that Beech  _ isn’t _ home. It’s just not the same home where Mama and his sisters are. It’s a home away from home. And Nando really, really likes the way that feels.

The door is a distant sound, with his music playing. What  _ actually _ gets his attention is the voice that comes from that direction; Ben, as usual, announces his own arrival before he actually comes into the kitchen. “Holy actual hell,” he calls, as his steps get closer. “You cooking, Nan?”

“You bet your ass I am,” Nando replies, with a laugh. He pauses his music, and then turns just in time to see Ben walk in. He has his backpack over one shoulder, and his jeans are cuffed, so you can see the rainbow socks that match his scrunchie. He puts a hand to his heart as he stops to survey the scene in the kitchen, and then drops his backpack.

“ _ Duuuude _ ,” he whispers, kind of reverently, and approaches the counter. He doesn’t actually comment on the mess in the kitchen, because Ben isn’t the tidiest person. He’s not the  _ worst _ , but still. Rooming with him was an experience last year. “What’s this for? You got a hot date tonight?”

“No, not tonight,” Nando mumbles, turning the heat down on the beans. “He has rehearsal.”

“Then this is for  _ us _ ?” A gleeful grin crosses Ben’s face. “Like, this is dinner?”

“Uh, yeah?” Nando laughs. “I thought you guys might want a night off from, like, dining hall food.”

“ _ Wow _ .” Ben puts his hand back on his heart, and sighs like a damsel in a sexist movie. “I feel so special.”

He grins at him. “I love that you assumed Quinn was coming over because I was cooking.”

“Well, yeah, because you’re a fucking simp,” Ben replies, and then walks over to his side of the counter and punches the side of his arm. “Everybody knows that.”

There’s no use defending himself in the face of Ben’s chirping, but he tries anyway. “I don’t cook  _ every _ time Quinn comes over.”

“He’s gonna be jealous.” Ben pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’m gonna send him a pict— wait,  _ dude _ , are those empanadas?”

“I still have to fry them.” Nando gestures to the pan of oil. “But yes.”

“Oh, my God.” Ben laughs and swoons. “Please marry me, dude. Like, what the fuck.”

Nando leans to the oven, to turn it on so it’ll keep the empanadas warm. “Well, now Quinn’s  _ definitely _ gonna be jealous.”

“Seriously.” Ben arches an eyebrow, flashing his trademark smirk. “I’m sending him a picture. I’m gonna tell him I’m stealing his man  _ and _ the food that comes with him.”

“I feel like you’re reducing me to my ability to cook.” Nando pauses, as he draws back from the buttons on the oven. He grabs a wooden spoon and turns it upside down, pressing it into the oil to test the temperature. It bubbles a little, but it’s definitely not hot enough yet. “Like a housewife?”

“You  _ are _ a housewife.” Ben is typing on his phone— Snapchatting Quinn, by the looks of what Nando can see on the screen. There’s a black caption bar over a photo of the tray of empanadas. “You’re the Beech Street personal chef. And I love you for it.”

Nando grins. “I love you, too.”

Ben finishes his Snapchat, then puts his phone back into his pocket and declares, “C’mere, big man.” He hugs him from the side, and Nando pats him on the back with his free hand. “You’re a legend,” Ben announces. “Thanks for feeding our sorry asses.”

“Wow,” Nando chirps, raising an eyebrow at his best friend. “Is this you being actually sentimental? What’s your deal?”

“Fuck off.” Ben immediately punches his arm again, but stays in the hug for a second more before he lets him go. “Who says I can’t appreciate the homies?”

Nando snorts. “I know you’re just trying to get extra empanadas.”

“ _ Not true _ ,” Ben retorts, even though it totally is true. He tucks one of his stray hairs behind his ear, and then folds his arms, surveying the kitchen scene again. “Also, where is everybody?”

Nando rattles off the list of people’s locations he came up with in his own head a little while ago. Ben nods as he does it, then shrugs, walking over to a barstool and hopping up into it. “Looks like it’s just me and you, simp boy.”

“Looks like it is.” Nando knows Ben can’t see his face anymore, as he tests the oil again. He’s grinning anyway. “Do you care if I put my music back on?”

“Yes,” Ben replies. “Your music is trash.”

“ _ Hey _ !” The oil is hot. Nando straightens and looks over his shoulder. “What’s wrong with my music?”

“I told you,” Ben says, simply. He’s scrolling through his phone at the counter. “It’s trash.” There’s a brief pause, and then Nando’s bluetooth speaker makes a little  _ ping _ .

_ Connected to: Ben’s iPhone _ , says the robot voice, and Nando rolls his eyes. “Come into my kitchen,” he mumbles. “Chirp my ass. Disrespect my music.”

“Oh!” Ben completely ignores this, and grins at his phone. “Q Snapped me back.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for something to load, and then announces, “He says he’s jealous and to save him some.”

Nando turns back to his empanadas, so Ben won’t see the smile on his face as he remarks, “Tell him I was already going to.”

“Of course you were,” Ben mumbles. “You fucking simp ass.”

The oven beeps— it’s finished heating. Nando thinks it’s easier to just fry everything at once and leave it warm in the oven, rather than wait for people to be ready to eat and try to time it. He takes a second cookie sheet out, for as he finishes frying. The apron Quinn made him, tied tight around his waist right now, is about to get kind of greasy. Not that it hasn’t already been through hell and back. He’s had it for over a year.

Behind him, Ben is quiet for a second, and then he starts playing Bruno Mars at a respectable volume through the Bluetooth speaker. Nando grins, and sways his shoulders to the opening couple of beats of 24K Magic. “See,” Ben says, with a grin in his voice. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, Nanny. I know what you like.”

“This is a good song,” he replies, and then Ben immediately starts singing. Nando laughs, loud and long, with the sun warm on his face and a good feeling in his chest.

He drops the first empanada into the oil and sings along with his best friend. Together, they make the kitchen into their own little party. Ben is a bad dancer and Nando is a worse singer, but they vibe together in the kitchen anyway, between batches of frying and various chirps. Nando thinks, as he cooks, that he honestly couldn’t be having more fun.

So, yeah. It’s a really great afternoon.


	24. sappy prompt: remy & kai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Who's Kai?" Remy's history major friend! [You can learn more about Kai here.](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/630621182045175808/mel-remy-and-aroace-rings-discuss)  
> More from the [sappy prompt list](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/630522113330233344/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list) on my tumblr! In which: I don't know, man..... Remy is being sort of emo about schoolwork and Kai is a good friend.  
> [Original prompt: 22. "You make me so happy."](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/631730909681434624/22-for-kai-and-remy-they-deserve-good-things)

_ sophomore year _ | _february_

Remy isn’t  _ completely _ freaking out over his schoolwork. It’s just that he’s not having the greatest afternoon. And he guesses his schoolwork is maybe one of the causes.

The problem is that freaking out about your schoolwork is stupid, especially when that schoolwork is already  _ done _ . Or mostly done. He took a huge midterm exam in his gen ed philosophy class on Thursday, and then turned in a long essay for The Reformation on Friday, and then spent all of today— Saturday— doing work for his other two classes, and that’s it; that’s all, he’s pretty much finished. The problem is that right now, it’s four PM on a Saturday, and his friends have texted him a number of times, and the only thing he can find the energy to do is sit on the edge of his bed and worry about his grades.

He doesn’t even know  _ why _ he’s so stressed. The big assignments and tests have been submitted; he just has to wait for his fate now. He thinks maybe it’s because Professor Han gave him a 76 on the first philosophy exam earlier this semester, and because Professor Friedman is notoriously tough on his writing, which, really, when you think about it, is his own fault, because this is his second year of American college and he  _ still _ can’t get his English to feel completely natural, because the universe hates him, but— but really, he’s fine. He didn’t sleep enough last night, and they lost their game yesterday, but he’s fine. He’s just not having a good day. Sometimes, bad days happen.

He taps both his feet on the floor. His dorm room is getting dark, because the sun sets so early, and he never bothered to turn the light on in here today to begin with. He needs to think about a million things— dinner, what he’s doing tonight, what assignments are on his radar next, how he can help to prevent such a nasty loss like the one last night from happening again.

But right now, he doesn’t want to think about any of that. Right now, he just wants to be in his room in the dark. He likes having a single this year; he can be alone with his thoughts a lot more. It makes for peace and quiet when he’s reading, that’s for sure. Francis was a decent roommate as far as freshman year roommates go, but Remy values solitude. The only problem is at times like this, when he starts zoning out and nobody’s there to pull him out of his head.

He’s fine. Really, he is.

When his phone pings, it makes him jump. It’s sitting face-up on the edge of his desk, so he can see the screen light up, a faint glow against the darkening room. At first, he isn’t going to pick it up. He wants to lay back and let the heap of stuffed animals on his mattress swallow him, and maybe fall asleep right there, and just sleep straight through to wake up tomorrow morning. Except that’s an impossible hope, because if he  _ did _ do that, he’d inevitably wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to get back to sleep at all and be totally dead all day tomorrow.

His phone pings a second time, and he isn’t sure why, but something about that second ping makes him curious about what notification it carries. He gets up, crosses the small floor space of his single, and picks up the phone. The notifications are stacked in order of most to least recent.

_ iMessage — now _

_ Kai _

_ Are you okay? You’ve been MIA for like 4 hours _

_ iMessage — 1m ago _

_ Kai _

_ Hey _

_ Group: Kiersey Men’s Hockey — 20m ago _

_ 18 notifications _

_ iMessage — 37m ago _

_ Ben _

_ are you coming to beech tonight _

_ Instagram — 1h ago _

_ kairibou sent you a post! _

The group chat lighting up is nothing new, and neither is Ben’s question about his plans for the night. He was with Ben, and Nando with him, earlier today— right up until lunch— and would probably still be with them if he hadn’t headed back for his room riding the homework excuse. The notifications from Kai are slightly more concerning, because they hit him with a pang of guilt. He doesn’t want to ignore xir. Or anybody, really.

He opens the Instagram notification first; xe sent him a meme about the Spanish Inquisition, which actually makes him laugh when he sees it. He likes xir message, then goes back over to the text thread. Even with one stupid meme, his shoulders feel a little less tight.

_ Me: Sorry _

_ Me: I’m okay _

_ Kai: Lol don’t be sorry _

_ Kai: I was just wondering _

_ Kai: What are you doing tonight? _

_ Me: I don’t know _

_ Me: I guess my team is probably hosting something at beech street _

_ Me: But I don’t know that I’m up for it _

_ Kai: Did something happen? _

_ Kai: To you _

_ Me: No, I’m okay _

_ Me: I’m just not feeling it _

Something funny happens, then, and Remy sinks into his desk chair as it happens. He watches Kai start typing, and then stop typing, and then start again, and repeat the cycle at least three times. He laughs at his phone screen again. The tension eases further.

Finally, there’s another text.

_ Kai: Where are you right now? _

_ Me: I’m in my room _

_ Me: Why? _

_ Kai: Just wondering _

_ Me: Uh… okay _

Xe stops texting after that. Remy watches the screen for xir typing bubble to appear, but it doesn’t. Xe leaves him on read, which is fine. Remy has never been the kind of person to get weird about texting times or getting left on read, since he is one of the worst culprits when it comes to forgetting to reply. He has no idea what Kai is up to, but at least now xe knows he’s not having any major crisis.

Because he  _ really _ isn’t having a major crisis. This is just normal college stress. Sometimes it happens.

And… okay. It’s true. He really doesn’t want to get another bad grade. But does anybody ever want that?

He walks back over to his bed, and grabs Nagini, his beloved weighted snake, from the stuffed animal pile. He drapes her around his neck like a scarf, then leans back into the pile, just the way he imagined doing, and feels the welcome embrace of a bunch of small, plush, inanimate friends.

Maybe he should go over to Kai’s apartment. He would really love to see Leonardo, the lizard xe’s not supposed to have in the dorms. But then again, that would require a lot of getting up and getting dressed and getting motivated that Remy cannot find in him right now.

So he’ll lay here. With Nagini and his other friends. In the dark. And that’ll be okay. If he winds up napping and waking up in the middle of the night, well… that’s a bridge he’ll cross when he gets to it.

He even closes his eyes. He’s not sure how long it is before it happens, but when the knock comes at the door, he’s definitely not  _ sleeping _ . He knows he’s not sleeping because it makes him jump, and he sits up halfway in bed.

_ Knock, knock _ . It happens again, as he runs through the list of possible culprits. It’s definitely not the RA on his floor, because there was no chipper little  _ res life! _ announcement that accompanied the knock. And he isn’t really on knock-on-the-door basis with any of his neighbors. He’s pretty sure it’s Kai. Then again, there’s an equal chance it could be Ben or Nando or even both of them at once.

There’s only one way to find out. He gets up, leaves Nagini on the bed, and pulls the door open a crack.

His visitor has purple hair, and is holding a small paper bag in one hand, with a disposable travel cup in the other. “Hi,” he says, in English, and then, in French, adds, “Are you about to kidnap me?”

“No.” Kai’s grin is gentle, and xe replies in French, because xe has never been anything but patient with his slow English brain. “But it would be cool if you let me in.”

“Oh.” He immediately feels stupid, because he should have realized that, and pulls the door all the way open for xir. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Kai slides xir shoes off at the door. They’re lavender high tops that  _ almost _ match the color of xir hair, but not quite. In general, purple is a necessary part of Kai’s aesthetic. Remy got xir a purple mug with lizards on it this past Christmas.

Kai is quiet for a second, as the door shuts itself behind xir. There’s something in xir expression that lets Remy know he’s about to be interrogated, before it even happens. Xe folds xir arms, and tips xir head to the side. Remy figures maybe he can beat xir to it, and answer the question before xe asks. “I’m okay,” he assures xir, and hopes he sounds convincing.

Kai doesn’t look like xe believes him. “Have you been locked in here all day in the dark?”

“No,” Remy lies, and then Kai turns on the light. He winces, and sits back onto his mattress. “A little warning next time?”

“Sorry.” Kai walks over to sit down next to him, and hands him the paper bag and cup. “But these are for you.”

“What?” He pauses, as xe forces the items upon him. The bag is light, but there’s definitely something inside— food, for sure. And the cup is warm, like it’s home to a hot drink. He meets Kai’s eyes. “Why?”

“Because I’m not stupid,” Kai laughs. Xe rubs his shoulder, gently, and adds, “You’re having a weird day. I thought you could use, like… a pick-me-up?”

“You didn’t have to—” He sniffs the drink; it’s hot chocolate. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, I wanted to.” Kai is still gentle, as a small silence settles over both of them. Remy peeks into the bag. It’s a croissant, a chocolate one, and both of these items no doubt came from the café on campus. He inhales, and when he lets out his breath, Kai speaks again. Xir voice is a lot quieter this time. “Are you okay?”

Remy hesitates, which is the first mistake you always make when you’re trying to convince someone you’re okay. But then again, says his subconscious, within that brief hesitation, why bother? Why try to fake it? Kai knows him well. Xe’s one of his best friends. And he has a feeling xe wouldn’t be bringing food randomly to his dorm if xe didn’t have some reason for it. The reason, in this case, being that xe obviously expects him to reply with a no to xir question.

So he sighs, then remarks, “I’m just having a day.”

“Having a day is okay.” Kai pauses. “That’s… kind of what I figured. It’s why I’m here.”

“Sorry,” he blurts, because the guilt washes stronger over him now. It’s a Saturday, and Kai could be doing any number of fun things, and xe’s in his dorm feeling sorry for him when he’s just being dramatic about some schoolwork.

“Why are you sorry?” xe replies. 

“I didn’t mean to, uh— concern you?” He winces at himself, and looks up to meet xir eyes. “Or, like— make you interrupt your day for me—”

“Rem,” Kai mumbles. There’s sincerity— and warmth— in xir eyes. “There’s literally nothing you have to apologize for. This is what friends are for.”

And Remy knows this. But he’s so overwhelmed with gratitude in this moment that it feels like new information. “Thank you,” he says. “For, uh— the food. And for coming.”

“You’re welcome on both,” xe says. “And it’s white hot chocolate, by the way.”

Remy laughs into the lid of the warm drink. “You make me so happy.”

Kai’s smiling, and xe shrugs. “Like I said,” xe says. “What are friends for.”

He takes a long sip from the cup; xe’s right. It’s white hot chocolate. And it tastes like a warm hug. Little by little, he thinks he’s going to have a good night.

“C’mon,” Kai says, after they sit there a moment, as if xe can read his mind. “Let’s watch something. I’m here to stick around.”

Remy smiles. “Okay.”

Before they do, he texts Ben.

_ Me: I’m staying in tonight, but I’ll see you at breakfast? _

_ Ben: good deal _

_ Ben: love you _

_ Me: Love you too _

With Kai, he winds up in a pile on his bed. They perch his laptop at the edge of the covers, pull up  _ Game of Thrones _ , and use the duvet as a way to achieve maximum cozy. Remy puts Nagini around his neck again. Kai is a lot smaller than he is, and xe huddles into his shoulder. Xe’s warm, and xir hair smells like lavender, and xe’s always a good cuddle.

“You should have brought Leonardo,” he tells xir, pulling his arm around xir shoulders.

“Aw,” Kai mutters. “He must be so lonely in my room. We can go there next time.”

“ _ Yes _ ,” he whispers, to the ceiling. Kai’s lizard is really the best.

“I know you like him more than you like me,” xe adds, as xe’s pushing play on the laptop.

“Well,” Remy remarks, not really able to stop smiling. “At least you know.”

Kai laughs as xe falls back into their blanket cocoon. “You’re an asshole,” xe remarks, and Remy grins wider, because he knows.

Safe, warm, and cozy, that’s how he spends the rest of his Saturday night. He wouldn’t change much of anything, not for the world.


	25. sappy prompt: cole & claire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another sappy prompt from [this list](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/630522113330233344/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list)! It's Claire's POV, which is interesting. Claire shows up in drama club fics, and you will see very clearly here that she dated Cole. They're not still together by the time Quinn and his fellow '21 students show up on campus, but this is a glimpse into their relationship. Set the school year before Quinn/Nando/Ben/Remy's freshman year!  
> [Original prompt: 13. "The way I feel when I'm with you..."](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/631812577077428224/13-with-cole-and-claire)

_(claire's) sophomore year_ | _april_

Claire is having a great birthday.

She knew it would be a good day when she woke up to sunny skies and a forecasted temperature above freezing, which, honestly, it’s about time, since it’s April 18th. Spring has pretty much arrived to campus, and even though this is her second spring at Kiersey, she feels like she maybe almost _forgot_ entirely how pretty it gets. The trees are budding— slowly, but surely— and there are a few flowers coming up— bulb stuff, mostly hyacinth and iris, like they have in the backyard garden at home.

So that’s how her birthday starts— with a smile, a recognition of spring, and a nice breeze through the window, which Ellie opened, by the way, because they’re trying to ‘embrace the outdoors’ in Joy Hall Room 134. Ellie is asleep when she wakes up, because Claire is definitely the earlier riser in their roommate duo, but the second she lifts her curly ginger head from the pillow, the first words out of her sleep-deprived self are, “Happy birthday, legend!”

There are other things in the morning, too— a FaceTime call with her mom, an invasion of said call by her siblings and her dad to say happy birthday, a regular voice call with her grandparents because they can’t work FaceTime, and— maybe sweetest of all— a text.

_iMessage_

_4/18/18, 12:03 AM_

_Cole💕🎶_

_helloooooooo don’t yell at me for my poor sleeping schedule choices but its past midnight so happy birthday :) you make me very happy, i hope you have the best day (when you wake up, which i hope isn’t now because it’s way past your bedtime)❤️_

She laughs at her screen when she reads it, and can’t really wipe the smile that lingers off of her face. Ellie is awake by that point, and she has some kind of best friend boyfriend-radar, because she immediately pipes up from her bed across the room. “Uh-oh.” Claire looks up, and she’s grinning. Her hair is everywhere, because of the way she slept on it. “Mushy text alert.”

There’s literally no use denying who the text was from, so Claire just shrugs and shakes her head, still smiling. “He just said happy birthday.”

Ellie sits cross-legged, and pulls her duvet around her shoulders. So much for embracing the outdoors. “What time did he send the text?”

“Uh… 12:03?” Claire pauses. “Why does it ma—”

“Because that means he didn’t see it on my story.” Ellie flashes a freckly grin. “Which means he remembered organically. Which already makes him better than He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

“Oh.” She laughs a little. “I guess you’re right. Yeah.” Her ex from freshman year, Mike, was notorious for a number of things, among them forgetting her birthday. Ellie plotted his murder on the regular.

_Me: Thank you!💜💜💜_

_Me: And good morning! I hope you slept well, despite being awake at midnight…_

Cole texts her back during breakfast, by which point her day is already pretty much going. She gathers with Ellie and their small circle of friends, mostly hallmates from last year they bonded with really well in the shared terror of freshman housing. They occupy the same table at the dining hall every time they get breakfast, and today, Niamh and Hannah from across the hall bring her a plastic crown and a purple balloon to tie to the back of her chair.

She doesn’t wear the crown to her 10:30 class, tempting as it is. On her way there, she texts Cole again. He’s being cryptic in a cute way, and it’s exciting.

_9:04 AM_

_Cole💕🎶: thankfully yes, i did sleep well, i hope you did too :)_

_Cole💕🎶: you’re free at 4:30, right?_

_10:18 AM_

_Me: Yes!_

_Me: Why do you ask?_

_Cole💕🎶: i reserve the right to let you wait to find out_

_Cole💕🎶: but_

_Cole💕🎶: you should meet me in the orchard around then_

_Cole💕🎶: if you want_

_Me: Omg_

_Me: Of course I want!🥰🥰_

_Me: You’re making me excited!_

_Cole💕🎶: good!_

_Cole💕🎶: you deserve a good day_

_Cole💕🎶: ❤️_

_Me: You’re so sweet🥰🥰🥰🥰_

_Cole💕🎶: hahaha_

_Cole💕🎶: have fun in linguistics!!_

_Me: I will!!💜_

She winds up being soft over him for pretty much the whole morning, which is definitely cheesy, but it’s all in the privacy of her head, so nobody needs to know. She runs into Reid at lunch, who does her the hilarious honor of (loudly, badly) singing Happy Birthday and getting a good percentage of the dining hall to join in. In her afternoon theatre class, she hangs out with Zelie, her favorite senior, and then walks out of class to a funny post her brother made for her on Instagram. The sun is still warm, and everything is good.

So it’s already a good day. And then Cole makes it better.

She walks up through campus toward the orchard at 4:30. She’s wearing her favorite outfit, which is maybe not the most important detail but still makes her feel good. It’s a lavender blouse with a black skirt, and fun floral-patterned purple tights. Her flats are maybe not the most sensible choice for walking in the orchard, but at least she doesn’t have to go that far.

Because when she gets to the actual orchard, Cole is already in sight; he’s sitting under a tree. The sight of him alone is enough to make her face warm, and it just gets easier to blush when he raises a hand over his head and waves.

She waves, too, and takes in the sight. Cole has spread a blanket out on the grass, and he has a small grocery bag to one side and his guitar case to the other. There’s a white box next to the grocery bag, and a small bundle of purple irises on top of the box. He’s in a green beanie and a flannel with plaid in the same color, and his smile is soft. “Hey,” he says, as she stops by his blanket. “Happy, uh— happy birthday.”

“ _Cole_ ,” she laughs, and drops down to sit across from him. “What’s— did you set all this up for me?”

“Well— yeah.” Cole half laughs, as he nods, and pushes his rounded glasses up the bridge of his nose. He is entirely too cute to handle, and Claire is going to melt. “I had a little help, but yeah.” He pauses, shifts the way he’s sitting, and then grabs the flowers. “These— may or may not be stolen from campus grouds, but—”

“They’re _beautiful_ ,” she says, before he can finish, and takes them when he holds them out for her. They’re her favorite color, soft purple, and she laughs as she adds, “I think I know exactly where you stole them from, too,” because they look an awful lot like the flowers in the garden outside the student center.

“Just don’t tell campus security,” Cole mumbles.

“I would _never_.” She puts a hand to her heart, and knows she’s still smiling like a big sap when she meets his eyes. “Thank you. You’re so sweet. These are going in my room.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice is soft, and he’s smiling right back. For good measure, she leans across the blanket to close the small distance between them, and kisses his cheek. This, as it often does, turns his entire face pink. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t do it on purpose, for that reaction. “Uh,” he adds, as the blush floods his cheeks. “So I brought some stuff.”

“It looks like it!” She leans back, to survey the scene on the blanket again. “You did all this by yourself?”

Cole shrugs, gently, and murmurs, “I… may have had a _little_ help. Reid told me this is a good spot for a picnic, but I did the rest.”

“He’s a man of wisdom,” she muses, regarding Reid, and then, as Cole reaches into the grocery bag, adds, “But _you_ are a very sweet boyfriend, and for that I’m very grateful.”

Cole is still blushing, as he roots around in the grocery bag. “Let, uh— let me explain, and then we can eat.”

He walks her through the small assortment of items in the bag— sandwiches on the good, fresh bread from the dining hall, and snacks he bought at the grocery store. The white box has cupcakes inside, but not just any cupcakes— _purple_ cupcakes, with cream cheese frosting, from the bakery in town she loves. She’s about ready to fly in her joy as he explains this to her, rocking back and forth gently as he speaks. “I know there’s a lot,” he says, “but, uh, I thought you could always have the extras some other day. And maybe Ellie would want one?”

“These are my _favorite_ ,” she cries, which he obviously knows, because he bought them for her birthday in the first place. “You’re the _actual_ best person alive. Did you know that?”

Cole shrugs. His hair, wispy and light brown, is blowing gently where it sticks out from under his beanie. With the blush under his glasses, and the small smile on his face, he couldn’t be cuter. Claire is sure of it. “I mean,” he mumbles, all bashful and sheepish. “It _is_ your birthday.”

Which is true. But he’s still totally outdone himself. And that’s _before_ he pulls out his guitar.

She eyes it while they eat, but doesn’t ask. She figures he brought it out here for some reason, and he’ll eventually explain, which she turns out to be right about. It would be lying, though, to say that, as they eat, she’s not secretly hoping he’ll serenade her. Cole’s guitar is sort of the whole reason she started liking him in the first place. Not the actual guitar itself, but the way he is when he plays it. He’s super talented, and super cute when he does it, and she first started to notice him when she first heard him play.

So she waits. Patiently. More than a little excitedly. They eat the food he packed, and she tells him about her classes, about her breakfast with the girls, about her serenade from Reid and his impromptu backup singers. The sun shines warm on her shoulders, and he tells her she looks pretty. It’s more than enough to give her butterflies.

She’s eating a cupcake when the guitar finally gets brought up. It’s after a pause in conversation, while she pulls the wrapper off of the cupcake and he takes a deep breath. He’s fidgeting with his hands in his lap, a sign he’s thinking. When he speaks, he’s looking down at his hands. “So, um.”

Claire waits. She puts the cupcake down on a napkin, and nods. “You okay?”

“Oh, I’m— yeah. I’m fine.” Cole’s laugh is gentle, and nervous. He nods, and then takes a deep breath for a second time. “I, uh… I was going to write you a card,” he starts. “I know that’s sort of, like. A thing people do.” He pauses. “But, uh… well… okay, I _tried_ to write a card. Or, like, something like that. But I realized…” He fixes his beanie, and then takes a deep breath for a _third_ time before he finally blurts a bunch of words out at once. “I’m… not good with words in that way, and I honestly, like, I don’t know how to write down the way I feel when I’m with you.”

The butterflies are at it again. Claire knows she’s smiling at him. She might even be blushing, too. And it just gets _easier_ to smile and blush and all that jazz when Cole finishes his ramble with, “So I, uh… I wrote you a song?”

He reaches sideways for his guitar. The case is undone, so all he has to do is throw the top open. “You did?” she asks, because in that moment, she can’t even find the words for the excitement.

“I, uh— yeah.” Cole rests his hand on the neck of his guitar. It’s maybe the most beautiful instrument Claire has ever seen, except her own flute, but she’s sort of biased towards the latter. Cole still looks hesitant, still red in the face. “Is that weird?”

“Oh, my _God_ , no,” she laughs, and shakes her head as she leans forward. “Cole, that’s— that’s maybe the sweetest gesture anyone’s ever done for me?”

“Well,” he laughs, “maybe don’t speak so soon. You haven’t heard the song yet.”

“I’ve heard your _other_ songs.” She could kiss him. She wants to kiss him. She _has_ done that before, a good number of times considering they’ve been together for two months. But right now, she especially wants to. “I can’t even— _Cole_.” She puts both hands over her face and laughs. “You’re the sweetest boy.”

Cole laughs, too; it’s the same bashful noise she’s gotten so fond of with him. Gingerly, he pulls his guitar from its case, and settles it into his lap. One test strum of a G chord, and she is positive she is going to combust with all the softness.

“Sorry, I, uh—” Cole stops strumming, and shakes his head. “I’ve never actually, uh, played someone a song I wrote them before? Especially not, like, a girlfriend.” He winces at himself. “So this is sort of new for me, and I’m, uh— a little embarrassed.”

“Oh, my God,” she murmurs. “ _Please_ do not be embarrassed.”

She guesses that’s enough for him, because he takes another of those huge breaths, and with that, he plays her the sweetest song she’s ever heard.

It’s like watching a little concert that was meant just for her. The lyrics are soft like a love song on the radio; his guitar sound is just… well, there’s nothing like it. In the entire world. Claire is blushing like crazy, and the best part is that _he_ is, too, right through the whole thing, as he looks down at his guitar and sneaks her smiles between verses. When he finishes, she wishes she’d made a voice memo of it on her phone or something. Something to hold onto.

“There is no way,” she breathes, as the last chord hangs in the air, “that you’re a real person.”

Cole laughs, doubling over his guitar. He’s the cutest boy in the world. “I really hope I’m a real person,” he replies, and she wastes no more time. She lunges across the blanket, takes care not to knock the guitar off of him, and grabs his face to kiss him gently. When he smiles against her lips, she thinks her heart is literally going to fly.

 _How_ is this happening to her.

“That was _so_ sweet,” she tells him, when she’s looking into his eyes, hazel and dazed behind those cute glasses. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“ _That_ was a thank you,” Cole breathes, and then adds, “Happy birthday.”

Claire laughs. She presses to his forehead, and then kisses him again.

This is, by far, the cherry on top of the best birthday she’s ever had.


	26. sappy prompt: quinn & nando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another from the [sappy prompt list](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/630522113330233344/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list)! In which: Quinn and Nando wake up in the morning and also they're in love.  
> [Original prompt: 10. "Stay with me forever."](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/631911707613216768/10-for-quinn-nando)

_ junior year _ | _august_

Quinn wakes up with a frat boy on top of him.

Thank goodness, it’s the correct frat boy. Not that there’s any reason it  _ wouldn’t _ be, but honestly, you never know sometimes when it comes to the house Beech Street. Quinn has, in the past, taken a nap on the couch downstairs and woken up in a Ben and Sebastián sandwich, sometimes with Remy in the mix. And though he sticks to Sebastián’s side at parties like the one last night, there  _ have _ been a few times he’ll wake up in an entirely different place than he fell asleep. (He knows that’s because Sebastián carries him, but the point stands.)

This, though— this isn’t some hangover, some wake-up from a nap. This morning, when Quinn wakes, it’s natural and gradual, with a big, familiar boy pressed over him on the mattress, and sunlight in his eyes. Quinn is sleepy, to be sure; he must have been up well past midnight, having fun with Sebastián and his friends, but in this moment, as he wakes up, there’s no feeling he’d trade it for.

It’s the first Saturday morning of the school year, and Quinn’s first time actually waking up in Sebastián’s room this semester. Four or five nights this past week, the first week of classes, he fell asleep with him as a very welcome visitor to his single dorm room across campus, so this isn’t his first time waking  _ up _ with him for the year. It’s merely the end of his first night spent at Beech Street. As a junior, anyway.

Which, goodness— Quinn should really spend more time here. He knows the reason he  _ doesn’t  _ sleep here more often is that it’s just a bit easier to have privacy in a single dorm that locks, as opposed to the room here, where Ben and Remy are each across the hall and various other friends lurk around random corners. But he does really like Sebastián’s room. It’s warm, and cozy, and feels a lot more homelike than a dorm room really can.

Quinn knows it only feels homelike because of the boy who inhabits it, but that’s a good feeling all the same.

He sighs, drinking in the comfort. Sebastián’s head is facedown in the pillow, resting next to his own, in the space between his neck and his shoulder, and Quinn can feel his steady breath as he lets it in and out in sleep. His hair, which brushes Quinn’s chin, is a wonderful, curly mess, and his brown skin is warm, smooth,  _ everywhere _ as they press together. Quinn will never be over this— over his body, over the weight and warmth, over the way it feels to wake up with him in the morning.

He’s missed this. It was a summer to remember, by far the best summer of his life thus far, a long and lovely tour he wishes he could relive even when it’s barely finished. The  _ sole _ downside of this summer, of doing shows, of bonding with his castmates, of seeing the whole country— the sole downside was missing this. He saw Sebastián once in July, for three wonderful days when the tour stopped in Phoenix. Under his mother’s careful eye— and goodness, she is the most kindhearted lady; Quinn is so glad he finally got to meet her in person— there, well… there was no real chance for this. No bed to spend the night with him in.

So this morning, this first Saturday of their junior year, Quinn smiles. He wraps his arms around Sebastián’s broad, strong shoulders, threads his fingers in his hair, and pulls him close.

This morning, in this bedroom on Beech Street, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

He lasts a good few minutes laying there with only Sebastián’s steady breathing to focus on. He traces back and forth gently across his shoulder. He huddles close into his neck. He watches the sunlight dance through the window, across the sheets and the roll of Sebastián’s hip, onto the hardwood floor of the bedroom. It was Quinn’s idea to put the bed by the window, when Sebastián made this room his on-campus home at sophomore moving day a year ago. He maintains that it was a good decision. (Fresh air will do wonders for the smell of a jock’s room. Trust him on that.)

He doesn’t have to roll over to see Sebastián’s digital alarm clock; it sits on the nightstand with their two phones, his ear case, a half-full bottle of water, and a photo of the two of them, and all of it is in his current sight line, which is how he figures out that it’s 9:53 in the morning. That’s late for him, for sure, and late for Sebastián as well, but not exactly late for a Saturday morning. The house, as far as Quinn can tell, is still completely dormant. He hasn’t felt anyone walking or moving around since he woke up, and he’s not sure how long he’s been awake.

Sebastián sleeps ever still. He may be snoring, actually, because his breaths are a little stronger than they would be if he weren’t. Quinn giggles, and holds him close against his chest, wonders if this will wake him up. It doesn’t, even as he waits. For good measure, he presses a kiss to his neck, but still nothing.

He pauses, as he lies beneath him. Sebastián isn’t the world’s  _ deepest _ sleeper, but he’s not the lightest one, either. Quinn wonders what it might take to wake him. He’s been awake awhile, and he decides he wants attention.

He kisses his neck again, going slow about it, and trails his kisses up to his jaw before he lands one just under his ear. This doesn’t seem to wake him, but he won’t give up so easily. He runs a hand, gently, down his bare back, and kisses his cheek as best he can given half of Sebastián’s face is smushed against the pillow.

Which, when he looks at it, is a truly lovely sight. He laughs again— softly, he thinks— and squeezes him tight as best he can manage. Beneath the covers, they’re fully tangled in one another, and though Quinn always gets swallowed by the sheer size of him when he lays under him like this, he  _ does _ get to pretty much wrap himself around his body.

So he squeezes— one arm around his waist, another at his shoulders, and presses his face down to kiss his neck again. This must do it, because the snoring feeling stops, and Sebastián shifts his head just a little on the pillow.

Quinn looks up just in time for him to open his eyes, and it is a truly beautiful thing to behold. His brown eyes are hazy, but equally dreamy. Quinn has spent so much time getting lost in them. That part doesn’t get old, either.

Sebastián blinks, and then turns his head to him and smiles. He’s maybe not even entirely awake as he closes the small distance between them to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. Quinn smiles, as he pulls away. It’d be lying to say he wasn’t hoping for that kind of good morning.

But he’d like to do it again, if he’s being honest. He lets Sebastián come to; as he does that, he reaches up and cups the side of Quinn’s face in one big, warm hand. Quinn leans into his touch, and maybe sighs a little when his thumb brushes at his cheek.

_ Wow _ , Sebastián says, clearly, and then pulls back just slightly, and uses his hand to sign,  _ You look beautiful _ .

Quinn smiles. He thinks he could melt into this mattress, or maybe— even better— into this boy’s arms. He wraps himself up into a hug Sebastián gives graciously, and he squeezes him tight again. He’s too big for Quinn to really fit his arms around him, but that never mattered. He’s always been the small one, always will be. He loves this big, handsome boy so much.

When the squeezing has concluded, Quinn lifts his head again, and this time he gets a proper kiss, a longer one, its only downside being how very prominent Sebastián’s morning breath is. He supposes he, too, just slept for so many hours, and therefore he shouldn’t talk. Not that he’d mind. He’s woken up with him so many times that morning kisses are par for the course.

Sebastián has a little mustache, leftover from the summer, and it prickles just a little. Quinn wasn’t keen on facial hair with him at first, but Sebastián— because he is a considerate and wonderful boyfriend— keeps it trimmed so it doesn’t interfere with lip-reading. This is how Quinn has come to tolerate it, and even like the way it looks on him. The kissing is still a little funny, and he pauses to laugh against his mouth between kisses.

_ You need to shave, _ he tries whispering.

Sebastián laughs, too. He pulls back to speak clearly again, so Quinn can watch.  _ I will _ , he says.  _ Promise _ . Then he pulls him back in for another kiss.

This is how Quinn loses himself in the morning. He somehow winds up on top of him, though their kissing stays slow and gentle, lazy and sweet. Propped over him, it’s a bit easier at least to breathe, because while falling asleep with 200+ pounds of boyfriend on top of him is preferable, it’s not the easiest position to kiss in. He likes straddling his waist, leaning up to the pillow, sitting pretty with those gentle hands on his sides.

When they take a little breather, Sebastián smiles at him in the sunlight, and Quinn realizes, all at once, how much he’d like to get his picture right now. Just like this, on the pillow, with his messy curls and his gentle smile. He rolls halfway over to grab his phone from the nightstand, then holds it up and raises his eyebrows.

Sebastián laughs, then nods, so Quinn takes the picture, to store it away as a good memory. As he’s returning his phone, he sees him gesture to his ear, which Quinn takes as a signal to go for his hearing aids next. Once they’re out of their case, he puts one in at a time, and no sooner has he secured them both than does Sebastián pull him down by the waist to hug him close again.

Quinn laughs, and kisses his shoulder. “Hi, my dear. Good morning.”

“You can take them out again,” Sebastián mumbles, his voice perfectly raspy and soft. “I just thought, uh— easier with them to hold you and talk at the same time.”

“No complaints here,” he hums, and moves to plant a second kiss at the top of his chest.

Sebastián rubs his back for a second, as they breathe near in time, and then, when his words come again, they’re a question. “What are you up to today, baby?”

“Mm.” Quinn pauses. His responsibilities seem very far off, though they do exist. “Some homework, I suppose.”

“Homework already?” Sebastián replies. He nods without looking up, so he adds, “Daaaamn. They don’t waste any time.”

“Well, surely you have homework as well,” he mutters.

“I mean, I have  _ some _ , but…” Sebastián trails off, and then Quinn hears him yawn. When the yawn is over, he doesn’t finish his sentence; instead, he starts a new one. “Do you have, like, a lot of homework?”

Quinn tips his head up now, to meet his eyes, because there’s something in his tone like he’s planning something. His face gives nothing away. “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing.” Sebastián shakes his head, with that handsome smile, and then pulls him up to eye level. “It’s just… you should stay with me.”

“Stay?” He smiles back at him, and arches an eyebrow playfully. “How long should I stay?”

Sebastián quirks a shoulder just a little, half a shrug, and remarks, “Forever,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Warmth washes over Quinn, as he adds, “But for now, the morning will do.”

Quinn laughs again. He slides his hands down his back to his love handles, and nods. Talking about forever is nothing new, but he still feels like he’s falling more in love with him every day. “I can do both of those things,” he assures him.

“ _ Perfect _ ,” Sebastián says, and holds him close, and that’s all Quinn needs.

They spend the first Saturday morning of the semester in bed.


	27. study break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt here! Just me vibing. I love that, when college is in session, my writerly motivation comes about at its strongest exclusively when I have about a million other responsibilities to attend to.  
> On the bright side: my winter break is so soon, just as it is for Quinn and company in this ficlet!  
> Anyway, random drabble from my tumblr, in which: [Quinn is studying for exams.](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/634968815228387328/study-break)

_freshman year_ | _december_

“Take a break, baby.”

Quinn isn’t sure he’s ever been more grateful for a voice of reason. He looks up from his chemistry textbook for the first time in what has to be at least thirty minutes, and Sebastián, just back from his run across campus to the café, is a welcome sight to behold as he approaches. He holds a bag in one hand, and some kind of warm drink in the other. His cheeks are a little flushed, and there are snowflakes in his curls, where they stick out from under his stocking cap.

“I got you a tea,” he adds, with a gentle, handsome smile, and places the cup down like a peace offering onto Quinn’s disaster table. When he sits in the empty spot beside him on the couch, it sinks with his weight, and Quinn tips toward him naturally.

“ _Thank_ you,” he manages to get out, and then, as Sebastián wraps his arm around him, he presses into his shoulder to yawn. “What time is it?”

“Four-thirty,” Sebastián replies, which is an atrocity, because it’s entirely dark outside the windows. Quinn has occupied this same spot in the basement of the dorm for nearly the entire afternoon, trying to prepare as much as possible for his Chem 100 exam tomorrow. Exam season is in full swing, as the last days of the semester approach, and Quinn can almost feel the academic stress like a physical weight on his shoulders.

It’s been a busy weekend.

He grumbles, and rests his face against Sebastián’s sweatshirt. “I think I was just reading the same page for ten minutes straight.”

“You should take a break,” Sebastián repeats, rubbing his back. “I got you a grilled cheese.”

“Oh my goodness,” Quinn mumbles, eyeing the bag from the café. This boy is too good to him. “Tea _and_ you bought me dinner?”

“I mean.” Sebastián pauses. “This should count as lunch. Since you forgot about that in your study coma.”

“I’m just— _agh_.” He squeezes his eyes shut and swats lightly at his chest. This sweatshirt is a nice one, bright Kiersey blue with gold lettering, not something from the hockey team but just from the bookstore. Quinn might want to take it home for winter break, but even that absentminded thought is something he wants to push aside.

Five days from now, he’ll be on a plane bound for six weeks in Michigan, where it’s back to the gray, isolated, artificial life he was living before this lovely first semester of college. Sebastián will be very far away, and they’re fully aware of that fact, ready to face it together, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be any easier to suddenly _not_ have him around when he’s gotten so used to him. And though it’s a big part, it’s not only the distance from his boyfriend he isn’t looking forward to. He’ll be far from his drama friends, from doing the things he enjoys, from any semblance of having a life at all. Winter break comes with a regularly scheduled dose of his grandparents, a basement bedroom, and repression of self to the highest degree.

For now, it’s easier to focus on exams. And the large, lovely boy hugging him close to his chest. “Are you nervous?” Sebastián is asking, somewhere above him.

“Not so much nervous.” Quinn releases him to look out over his schoolwork again. He really should tidy up this table. The poor custodian would have his head on a spit if he could see how many class notes, books, and pens Quinn has scattered over it this afternoon. “More... anticipatory.”

“I know what you mean.” Sebastián is quiet for a second as he leans forward to gather all his chemistry notes into a semi-neat stack. He places them on top of his current page in the textbook, then closes it on them, to save his spot. When he leans back on the couch again, he takes the tea with him, and sniffs before taking a sip. It’s peppermint. Because this boy knows the way to his heart.

“You should eat, though,” Sebastián insists, while he drinks. “I called Remy and Rho to come down here. We can hang out. You can have a little study break.”

Quinn nods. He thinks the version of himself who set out on this chemistry mission a few hours ago would sooner fight Sebastián tooth and nail than take a break, but now, in the dark, snowy quiet of the early afternoon, he’s ready for a break. His head hurts a little from all the reading, and he’s put in a good effort. The exam is at ten tomorrow, and the night is young.

He pulls his grilled cheese from the bag; there’s an order of fries inside, too, and a cookie for good measure. “My dear,” he says, as he’s examining the food. “I’ll owe you a meal.”

“Ehh.” Sebastián shrugs; his curls bounce a little. His smile is self-satisfied and charming. “You can buy me lunch tomorrow after your test.”

Quinn smiles back, and tips up to kiss his cheek. “Deal.”

He sets the takeout container with sandwich and fries in his lap, and leans back into Sebastián’s shoulder, tucking his feet up onto the couch. Sebastián is looking at his phone, and laughs a moment before he announces, “Ben’s on his way. He kidnapped Remy from the library.”

“Oh, goodness,” Quinn mumbles. “Remy may kill him for that.”

“Yeah, I think that’s possible.” Sebastián tucks his phone away. Quinn offers him up a fry, but he pushes it away. “No— you eat first, baby.”

Quinn can do that. He knows that whatever he doesn’t finish, Sebastián will take care of for him, so he enters into grilled cheese euphoria without another thought on the matter. Nobody does a grilled cheese like the grill cook at the Bluegrass Café. Yet another thing about college he’ll miss over break. Oma’s cooking isn’t exactly anything to write home about.

“How’s _your_ studying going?” he asks, as he eats. Sebastián already had one exam, yesterday, but he has three more to go, one of which is for his intro to sociology class, tomorrow afternoon.

“I feel good,” Sebastián says. “I’ll study more in the morning, though. I was doing study prayers earlier. I said one for you.”

“You—” Quinn pauses, with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “You did?”

“Yeah!” The way he says it is so carefree, like he hasn’t just made Quinn’s heart flutter. “I’ve said a couple,” he adds. “I said one before you had that big lab practical last week.”

Quinn wonders if he’s red in the face, as he looks up at him. Logically, of course he knows— _has_ known— that Sebastián is very religious. He wears it on his person, quite literally, with the cross around his neck, and figuratively, too, as he’s spoken openly about faith since Quinn first met and got to know him. But this— this in particular is new information. And it puts something warm and fuzzy in Quinn’s heart.

“What?” Sebastián has noticed now that Quinn is staring at him. He smiles just a little, as he asks, “You okay, _cariño_?”

He doesn’t exactly mean to blurt it out, but his head is so in the clouds that he doesn’t get the chance to stop himself. “You pray for me?”

Sebastián looks— well, maybe not _surprised_ , exactly, by this question, but at least a little confused. “Of course I do,” he says, without a second’s hesitation. “I pray for you all the time.”

Quinn is most _definitely_ red in the face now. He takes too long to respond, though, because Sebastián speaks again, with a tinge of insecurity in his voice. “Is that— weird?” he asks, then starts to scramble. “If it makes you uncomf—”

“No— _no_ , Sebastián, no. It isn’t weird. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.” He hurries to shut down any doubt, and, to his relief, the worry fades from Sebastián’s face as quickly as it showed up. He presses his palm flat to his chest, and looks right into his eyes as he adds, “I just think it’s incredibly sweet.”

“Oh.” Sebastián pauses a second, then smiles, that big, goofy grin that Quinn fell head over heels for barely a month ago. He somehow feels like it’s been a lot longer than that. “Well, yeah, I— I do it. It’s just— like, natural. I couldn’t imagine not doing it. I mean, you’re my—” He shakes his head, pausing again, and then remarks, “I pray for everyone I care about.”

_Goodness_ , Quinn is in so deep with this boy. His cheeks burn as he smiles up at him, and then presses forward to kiss him, a gentle little peck but a sweet thing all the same. “I think that’s so lovely,” he says. “And thank you. For doing that for me.”

“I always will,” Sebastián says, like there’s never been another way.

Quinn is getting used to the idea of always.

He gives him another kiss, to make up for his loss for words, and Sebastián is making like he’s going to pull him into his lap when the rude interruption comes.

“Okay, simp city! Break it up!”

Quinn jolts, and doesn’t even need to look to know who the voice belongs to. At the foot of the basement stairs, and, by the looks of it, fresh from the outdoors, Ben is classically boisterous and disruptive, and has a less-than-impressed Remy in tow. Like Sebastián was when he returned from the café, they’re a little snowy and windblown.

“There’s no PDA in the basement,” Ben adds, tutting at the both of them, as he strolls over to the table. “I’ll snitch you to the RA.”

"That isn’t a real rule, Benjamin,” Quinn mutters, in lieu of a greeting.

“Snitches get stitches,” Sebastián adds, and mimes shooting Ben with a finger-pistol.

“You’re right, but for you two schmoopy fucks? I’d risk it all.” Ben tosses himself onto the couch on the other side of Quinn’s disaster table, and Remy, who still does not look impressed, takes the armchair next to it, since Ben has occupied the couch’s entire real estate via sprawling.

Quinn looks to him, as he digs into his backpack. “How are you, Remy?”

“I have so much vocabulary to memorize,” Remy mumbles, and presses his forehead into his hand before he adds, “Life is bleak.”

“Aw, you can do it, Rem.” Sebastián leans forward to drum on the table, like he’s trying to lift his spirits. “We believe in you!”

“I’m going to need all the belief I can get,” Remy replies, and then pulls a notebook out of his backpack.

“Q, is this your mess?” Ben puts his Vans up on the disaster table. “I expected more organization from Mr. ‘I Can’t Leave The Dorm; These Are My Inside Shoes’.”

“Oh, _hush_ ,” Quinn replies. “It’s not my fault I have rules about what constitutes sensible footwear for the snow.”

Ben folds his arms and arches an eyebrow. “And yet you don’t have rules about sensible study strategies?”

Quinn throws a fry across the table at him. Remy snorts, but does not look up from his notebook. “Ooh, delicious,” Ben remarks, even though the fry lands on the ground. “Where’d you get the food?”

He picks up the unfinished half of his grilled cheese, and waves it at Ben. “Sebastián graciously did a Bluegrass run for me.”

“You fucking traitor,” Ben whispers, eyes on Sebastián. “You got food for him and not for me?”

“He’s nice to me,” Sebastián replies.

“Ouch.” Ben puts a hand on his heart, bows his head, and remarks, “Message received. We’ll see who lets you in next time you’re locked out of the room at two AM.”

Sebastián sticks his tongue out at Ben, and Quinn laughs. Tucked under Sebastián’s arm on this couch, with snow falling outside, he has a lot to attend to— and cleaning up his disaster table is just the start of it. It’s going to be a busy week, between exams, packing, and saying goodbyes, but right now, he won’t think that far ahead.

Right now, he’ll give himself permission. Right now, he’ll take a break.


	28. sappy prompt: ben & cole i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another from this [sappy prompt list on Tumblr](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/630522113330233344/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list)! In which: Cole's mental health isn't in a good place, and Ben is here for him.  
> [Original prompt: 17. "Because I love you."](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/636073851388887040/17-for-bencole)

_four years after (cole's) graduation_ | _november_

It’s getting dark again.

Cole hates this time of year. If he had the energy for it, he would honestly be down to personally fight the inventor of daylight savings. He really doesn’t understand the reason for setting the clocks back, and causing sunset to take place at 4 PM. Cole is pretty sure the only thing ever accomplished by daylight savings in the history of ever is making people feel dark, gray, and gloomy.

Case in point: out the apartment window, the sky is quickly and steadily darkening over a wintry Providence skyline. He hates how you can be facing away from a window in the winter, lose track of time, and turn around to find it’s pitch black out there. The city lights give him a little glow, cast across the floor of his studio, but that glimmer of light doesn’t stand a chance against the overwhelming night.

What time is it? Cole has no idea. He’s been on the floor in the studio for a couple of hours, at least, working away at the bridge of a song he’s been trying to finish for the past three days to no avail. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but he isn’t hungry. His guitar has been in his lap so long that his legs, crossed beneath it, are starting to fall asleep. The sweatshirt he’s wearing— one of Ben’s, baggy on him the way he likes it— needs to be washed. He knows it needs to be washed, because it smells. He’s known this for at least a week. Putting it in the laundry is a small, stupid hill he can’t seem to climb, so he’s wearing a smelly sweatshirt. He hasn’t showered in two days.

The studio is dark. He’s been trying to work for hours, and hasn’t made any progress. It feels like every small task, right now, is that kind of hill.

He blinks into the dark, and leans forward on the rug for his phone, which is buried under a steadily growing layer of crumpled papers, broken pencils, and random trash. When he finds it, he turns it over to look at the time.

It’s 4:31 in the afternoon.

He looks, blankly, at his phone screen for a second, aware of some stacked notifications but not really reading them. It’s been a couple of hours since he even unlocked it. The glow of the screen, bright in the dark studio, hurts his head a little, and when it auto-sleeps, he sets his phone back down and exhales.

4:31, and the only thing he wants to do is go to bed.

And, honestly, what’s stopping him from that? Because bed is one room over, and if he just gets under the covers, he won’t have to think about how impossible it’s been to finish this bridge, or how behind he is on literally all of his music work, or how he has a shift tomorrow at the café, which, no matter how soul-sucking, is _real_ work, and will be, until he makes something of himself, which is probably never going to happen, because he’s worthless and useless and can’t even write a bridge when he has a completely free Friday afternoon with _nothing else to do_ —

Or, come to think of it, the _dark_. Most of all the dark. Because when the world is dark for so much of the day, it leaves a free place for Cole’s own darkness to occupy in his mind. It makes everything worse. It always has.

If he gets in bed, hides under the covers, he doesn’t have to think about any of that.

So that’s what he’ll do, he decides. That’s all he has the energy to do. It’s not like he has anything to do for the rest of the day anyway. Ben will be home from work in half an hour or so, but Ben won’t mind if he’s asleep.

It’ll just be easier. He doesn’t want to be alone in the dark with his thoughts anymore.

*

It’s getting dark again.

Ben is over it already, honestly. Summer is his favorite season, for a variety of reasons, and pretty much the only things that make winter tolerable are hockey (a significant benefit) and the holiday season (sort of). He hates daylight savings, because it’s so dark when he leaves work it might as well be eight PM. Today is no exception; he leaves his office building to a black city sky and a certifiably nasty winter wind. There might be snow coming, which would be a hate crime, since it isn’t even Thanksgiving yet.

At least it’s Friday. He catches a good stretch of music on the radio during his short ride home, and he’s still nodding to the beat on the elevator ride up to his floor in the apartment building. It’ll be a good night in; they can order from that good pizza place down the block, and maybe watch a movie. Cole has to work tomorrow, but it’s an afternoon shift. They have the next twenty or so hours all to themselves.

Ben is looking forward to it.

“I’m home, Coley!” he sings, as he pushes open the apartment door. There aren’t any lights on when he walks in. This isn’t concerning, until it is— because Cole doesn’t really hang out in the kitchen, but a quick glance tells him that the lights aren’t on in his studio, either. The door is open, and it’s dark behind it.

It’s like there’s no one home at all.

“Babe?” He flicks on the main kitchen light, as he shuts the door behind himself. There’s no response. Ben hesitates, just a second, as he hangs his jacket and keys, and then adds, “You in here?”

Which is a stupid question, because Cole has to be _in_ here somewhere. He doesn’t drive, and even past that, isn’t the kind of person to randomly go out without saying where he’s going. Ben knows he’ll find him, somewhere in the apartment— he just doesn’t know where, or in what headspace, he might find him.

He can’t help but get _just_ a little nervous, when he comes home to a dark apartment.

Because nine months into this relationship, Ben knows what dark means. Cole shuts lights off, habitually, when he’s in a bad place. He blocks out the light on purpose, like it’ll hurt him if he sees too much of it. Ben has come home to this before. And he knows, on top of everything, that the onset of winter doesn’t do anything good for Cole’s mental health.

So he treads carefully, across the kitchen, and speaks gently as he goes. “Cole?” He peeks into the studio, and flicks on the light. Cole isn’t in here— but evidence of him is. His working area is a disaster scene, with his guitar left on the ground, surrounded by writing utensils, crumpled notebook pages, and trash. His phone is in here, too, near his guitar.

It’s… a mess. But messes can be cleaned up. What’s worse than it being messy is the fact that it’s a clear sign of Cole being unwell.

Ben steps back from the studio, and glances down the hall. Their bedroom is the last room, and its doorway is just as dark as any other door in the apartment. He tries to be quiet, as he walks there, and when he glances inside, finds his hunch was accurate— Cole is a lump under the covers, on the far side of the bed.

“Cole?” he tries, again, but keeps his voice low. If he’s asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him up. At least not right this second. “I’m home, baby.”

The lump doesn’t move.

Ben hesitates, a second, as he hangs on the doorway. Cole is obviously asleep— his body, huddled almost completely under the comforter except for the hood of his sweatshirt and top of his head, is rising and falling, steady breathing. The problem isn’t exactly that he’s sleeping, but that he’s sleeping in the dark at 5:15 PM. That fact, combined with his mess in the studio, can only mean one thing.

Cole didn’t have a good day today.

It pains Ben to think of what must have led to this— because he knows this boy, knows him well enough to understand these signs, knows his brain never takes it easy on him, least of all on days when it gets dark in the middle of the afternoon. He must have been in the studio, at some point— that’s what he said he was doing today, when Ben left for work this morning. Last he saw him, he was sitting on the counter, eating Trix out of a mug, and he said, _I really have to finish that bridge today._

 _That’s a good idea, babe_ , he’d replied, putting the lid on his travel mug of coffee. _You’ll have to play it for me, when I get home._

Cole had smiled— thinly, like it took a lot of energy, but still, he smiled. _I will, if I finish_.

Ben doesn’t know what filled the hours between his leaving for work and right now. But he knows Cole wound up here, instead of in the studio— where he would be, if it’d gone well— and that that can’t mean much good.

But he can’t change any of that. What he _can_ do is try to make the rest of the night better for him. And if nothing else, _that_ is something he knows how to do.

So he turns on the lamp on their bedside table, the lowest light in the bedroom, and lets him sleep, as he changes out of his work clothes and into sweats. He turns other lights on as he backtracks through the apartment— the hall light, the dimmer in the living room, the fixture over the kitchen island. Each makes the place feel a little warmer, a better place to be on a cold, wintry, maybe snowy night. He looks into the fridge, then the freezer.

Yeah, screw ordering. He’ll _make_ pizza, tonight. He’ll do Cole’s favorite— barbecue chicken, green peppers. He has enough in the fridge, and something home-cooked could probably do him some good.

It takes ten minutes to roll out the dough, another ten to do the toppings. He preheats the oven, and while he waits, he cleans up the trash in the studio. He zips Cole’s beloved guitar back into its case, and brings out his phone, leaves it on the charger in the kitchen. He doesn’t really want to throw away any of the notebook pages, just in case Cole decides, later, in a songwriting frenzy, that something he crumpled up previously might be important. So he leaves those, flattens them all and puts them into a pile on the studio desk. When he’s satisfied, he shuts the studio light off, and closes the door as he leaves it.

Next, he grabs a fresh change of clothes for Cole from the dresser, and sets them on the sink in the bathroom with a clean towel. He highly doubts that Cole showered today, and he hasn’t seen evidence of him doing so in at least a few days. Cole won’t like that, but it’ll do him some good.

He’s back in the kitchen, taking the pizza out of the oven, when he gets company. He doesn’t notice, at first— Cole is in socked feet, and moves quietly, so much so that Ben starts a little when he turns and sees him coming in. “Hey,” he breathes, keeping his voice mostly quiet, as he sets down the pizza stone on a potholder to cool. “How was your nap, babe?”

Cole stops a few feet from the island. Head to toe, he looks so hollow and tired that it hurts Ben’s heart a little. He still has the hood of his sweatshirt— well, Ben’s own sweatshirt originally, but basically it’s Cole’s now— pulled up over his head, the way he slept, and his hair, longer than usual, hasn’t been brushed in awhile. He’s squinting, not wearing his glasses, and he rubs one of his eyes over and over.

When he speaks, he only has half a voice. “Hi.”

Ben walks to him. For some reason, he feels like he has to hold him up, to keep him steady on his feet. He takes him by his elbows, and Cole falls into his embrace— he’s dead weight, and he exhales, presses his head into his chest. He’s a little shaky. Ben would wonder if he caught a cold, but knows better. He knows this. This is a different kind of sick.

“Hey,” he says again, and squeezes him tight around the waist. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Cole is still shaky, in his arms. He doesn’t speak for a minute, so Ben holds on tight. Cole smells like his clothes haven’t been washed in too long, and his hair is greasy.

“I didn’t—” comes Cole’s voice, small and unsteady, from his head pressed into his chest. “I didn’t get anything done today.”

“That’s okay, babe.” Ben knows his assurance in this category won’t really do much, because Cole is so, so hard on himself when it comes to creative productivity— but the least he can do is try. “You don’t have to get things done every single day.”

Cole groans, and shakes his head. “I had the whole day,” he says, and Ben doesn’t realize until right then that he’s crying. His voice breaks on the end of his sentence, and he sniffles. “I had the whole day,” he repeats.

“Hey— baby.” Ben tugs, very gently, at the hood of his sweatshirt, and eases him up so he can look him in the eye. His eyes are glassy, and he has a pillowcase imprint on his cheek. Ben wipes at a wet spot on his cheek. “That’s _okay_ ,” he says. “The writing isn’t important if you’re not okay.”

Cole sniffles again, and his eyes well up further. “ _Hey_ ,” Ben whispers; his stomach turns at the sight. He pulls him close to hug him again, and pressed close against him, Cole cries a little more openly. “Don’t cry, baby. I’ve got you. I’m home now.”

“I’m so—” Cole stops, to sniffle, before he continues, “I feel so useless.”

“You aren’t useless,” Ben tries. He tightens his grip. He knows he’s the only thing keeping him steady. “It’s a tough time of year.”

Cole groans again, and then nods, and for a minute, they’re quiet. They stand in the middle of the kitchen, and Cole sniffles a few more times against his chest, and to take this away from him is the only thing Ben wants to do.

He can’t do that. But he can do what he can. He can try.

“I made dinner,” he says. “And I took out clean clothes— you should shower, babe.” Cole grumbles a little in protest, so he adds, “I know you don’t want to, but you should. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t have the energy to shower,” Cole whispers, a little less tearily but just as weakly.

“I can—” Ben bites back his first response, because he doesn’t want to give the wrong impression. “If you want,” he rephrases, gently, “I can help you.”

Cole is quiet, and then lets off a long exhale. When he looks up, his eyes are still full, but he tips forward to rest his forehead against his, and reaches around the back of his head. Ben knows what he’s doing before he does it— he pulls at his elastic, and takes down his hair. When it’s out of the bun, Cole threads his fingers in it, like he’s holding on for dear life. It doesn’t really hurt, but it’s tight.

“Why,” Cole mumbles, and then swallows. He sounds like he’s fighting to keep his voice steady, to keep more tears from coming. “Why are you being so patient with me.”

It’s a question that isn’t phrased like one. Ben knows the answer, would always know the answer. “Because I love you,” he replies, without waiting. “And I would do anything to help you feel better. Even if it’s only a little at a time.”

Cole sniffles again, and Ben can see the exact moment he loses his fight against the tears. When they fall, Ben wipes them away with his sleeve.

“I’m sor—” Cole starts, but he cuts him off.

“No,” he says. “You never— look at me. You never have to be sorry, baby.”

Cole sniffles, again. His voice is strained, but he murmurs, “I love you,” and Ben doesn’t want to do a single other thing in the world tonight but be here. And hold him. And keep letting the light in.

“I’m right here, babe,” he tells him. “Okay? You can shower while the pizza cools.”

Cole takes a long breath, a shaky one, but his exhale is steadier than the inhale. It’s a good sign. It’s progress. It’s something.

They’ll take the night in steps, and go from there.

“Okay,” Cole says, finally, and he wipes his own face with the sleeve of the oversized sweatshirt. He nods, and repeats himself. “Okay.”

Ben reaches down, and takes his hand. When he squeezes, Cole’s squeeze back is tight. “Good,” he says, and tips his head toward the bathroom. “Come with me, baby.”

Out the window on his way by, Ben notices it’s snowing. It’s early, for sure, for that to happen. But the apartment is warm, and they have each other, and they don’t have anywhere to be.

It’ll be a long winter. But Ben is going to get them both through it.

Because through good and bad, dark and light, through any season, he has Cole— and he’s never letting go.


	29. sappy prompt: reid & bri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another [sappy prompt](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/630522113330233344/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list)! In which: Reid, living post-graduation in New York City, is trying to give his girlfriend the best birthday he can. I haven't gotten to do much with Reid and Bri at all so far, so I was really glad to write this one!  
> To learn more about Reid and Bri, you can see [this post on my Tumblr. ](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/627339597241827328/can-you-tell-us-more-about-reid-and-bri-like)
> 
> [Original prompt: 4. "Shut up and kiss me."](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/636246391070638080/ooh-also-4-for-bri-and-reid-because-i-love-them)

_ two years after (reid's) graduation _ | _may_

Reid considers himself spectacularly efficient when it comes to fucking things up.

He knows this. Has always known it. He figures it’s a good thing to be self-aware, at least. He’s probably one of the more self-aware human beings to ever have a conscience, come to think of it, given the amount of time he spends policing his own every action. But still. There has to be some benefit in being so well aware of your own flaws that you can constantly predict your fuck-ups before they even happen. It’s like damage control when the damage hasn’t even set in.

Anyway. Reid knows he’s good at fucking up. But if there’s one thing he would really prefer not to fuck up, it’s Bri’s birthday.

Easier said than done.

When midnight strikes on the day she’s turning 24, he’s not even home, which is the first reason he feels guilty and useless. He’s at work, apron around his waist, tie done up too tight, sneaking glances at the clock across the room in between customers and refills. He wishes he had his phone on him, as the minute hand lines up with the second hand at the 12. He could at least text her. He could make up for the fact that he’s not there in person, to ring in the first moments of the day. But his phone is in the back, in his locker, because this is the best-paying place he works at, and he doesn’t want to risk his employment by getting caught with a phone by his manager. Or worse, a nosy customer, who will subsequently rat him  _ out _ to his manager, and, well— yeah. Not to mention the fact that it’s usually so fast-paced in the bar that there’s no time to check your phone anyway.

The point is. He wishes he could text Bri. But he can’t. It’s probably for the best. She’s probably not even awake. It would actually be bad if she  _ were _ awake. A healthy sleep schedule is something she deserves.

Actually, she deserves a lot. The entire world. A lot more than Reid has ever been able to give her, and there isn’t a day that goes by when his brain fails to remind him of  _ that _ particular fuckup in his life thus far. But tonight, he shouldn’t think in huge terms. Tonight, he should just worry about her birthday.

_ Man _ , he wishes he were home in bed.

The strike of midnight, although it provides something to focus on, isn’t even the sign of his shift nearing an end, because the bar doesn’t close until 2:30, and the latter two and a half hours of work wind up passing by even more slowly than the beginning of his shift did. When he finally sees his last customer out, after last call, and he’s the only lonely, lingering person in the place—  _ then _ , the end is in sight. He has closing chores ahead of him, but at least he doesn’t have to wait around to go home anymore.

It’s nothing that out of the ordinary, really, to be working this late. Between three jobs and sneaking in open mic nights between them any chance he can, he can’t remember the last time he had a night entirely off. Or a day, honestly, and tomorrow— or today, since it’s past midnight— isn’t any exception. He has the lunch shift at the street diner he works at, and the jury’s still out as to whether he’s going to bag his shift at the second bar he works at tomorrow night.

All of this is to say: he’s working a lot. Which is fine. Work means money, which means staying alive, especially with the New York cost of living he’s gotten used to since they moved here after graduation. It’s a necessary part of life. He just wishes life could stop, for one day, so he could do this right. So he could at least give her  _ something _ , to make up for all the areas in life where he’s lacking. Where he’s an extremely underwhelming excuse for a future husband.

And, look— he did actually get her a present, so that’s not the issue here. It’s more the lack of  _ time _ . It’s more the overwhelming sense that, despite her stability, despite the fact that she’s stuck with him for six years, he doesn’t  _ deserve _ this patience, and that one day she might finally come to her senses and decide that she doesn’t feel like waiting around while he slums it in New York and tries to make it big, that she wants, like, a normal life, with a partner who makes a salary and a house or at least an apartment with more than one room and, like, basic predictability and success—

Ugh.

For now, for this very early morning, he won’t think about all of that, no matter how much it rings in his ears as he cleans up and closes the bar. For now, he just wants to make sure Bri has the most perfect morning possible. And to do that, he has a checklist.

Step one: finish work. He considers that done as he locks the front door of the bar, and steps out onto the street. It’s kind of breezy but not exactly cold out, since Bri’s birthday marks the last day of May, and summer is pretty much here. It’s not really  _ busy _ outside on the street, but he’s not the only one out, either. Rule number one of New York City: you are literally never the only person out and about, no matter what time of day it is.

Step two: the bodega. It’s on his walk, open twenty-four hours, and he stops there so often at weird hours of the night after work shifts that he’s established a rapport with the cashier who works the red-eye shift. “Eyyyyyy,” he sings, as he swings through the door into the small, artificially lit space. “What’s up, Charlie? You working hard, or hardly working?”

Actually, it’s not so much a rapport. It’s more that he’s constantly the loudest customer who graces this place between the hours of midnight and four in the morning, and Charlie probably hates him, but still tolerates his presence. So.

He needs flour, half a dozen eggs, a tied-up bunch of yellow and white flowers, and rainbow sprinkles. He also slides three Red Bull onto Charlie’s till, and then grins across the counter to remark, “The necessities.”

Charlie grunts or maybe chuckles, and scans his stuff. “Right.”

Step three: get home and get to work.

It’s, like, six minutes on foot from work to the bodega, and then four more to the subway stop, and then the subway is a whole host of issues that land him back at the apartment building around 3:30 in the morning. Bri’s alarm goes off at 6:30 for work, and he figures he can intercept her for a proper birthday breakfast before she goes to the gallery. Given that he kills one of the Red Bull from the bodega while he’s in transit to get home, he is at least ninety percent confident that there’s no point in  _ not _ pulling an all-nighter.

It’s fine. He’s not even tired. He has stuff to do, anyway.

The apartment is dark when he gets in, and he tries to make the smallest amount of noise, which, when you think about it, is kind of pointless because it’s only one room and any noise he makes could count as a disturbance, but—  _ but _ — Bri isn’t a light enough sleeper to wake up at that kind of stuff. A fact he is grateful for. So he puts the bag of groceries down, gently, on the counter, and turns the light on over the sink while he loosens his tie. Or more like yanks it off. The uniform at that job is seriously not his style, but you take what you can get.

Across the room, where their bed is tucked up into the corner, Bri is asleep. Thank Christ. He would be concerned if she weren’t. While he gets out of his work clothes, he looks at her in bed— she’s peaceful, and looks comfortable, and he kind of wants for a second to just crawl into bed with her, but if he does  _ that _ , he’ll never get anything done in time, and she’ll wake up to a normal old morning. With nothing special. On her birthday.

She doesn’t deserve that.

When he’s finished changing, it’s 3:41 Apple time. The morning is young. He sneaks a kiss to the top of her head and pulls the covers a little higher over her shoulders, then slides across the room in his socks, back to the kitchen side of the apartment.

Sure, he’s great at fuck-ups. But he’s not going to let this one be a bust.

*

It’s a quick three hours.

He blames executive dysfunction. Time passes too quickly when he’s on a crunch, literally every time. He starts with her card, which he bought a few days ago— writes it out, seals it into its envelope, and weighs it down with the corner of one of her vases, which he fills with water and puts the flowers in. It’s glass-blown, psychedelic colors; she made it in the glass studio junior year at Kiersey, and it followed them to New York.

With that done, he gets all his ingredients out for breakfast. He can’t start cooking at 4 in the morning, but he can get ready— a bowl out on the counter, their one good frying pan on the griddle, dry ingredients for pancakes measured out. He’s not the  _ most _ versatile cook in the world, but he makes a mean Kraft Dinner, and this, too, he can do— birthday cake pancakes. With sprinkles. It’s Bri’s favorite breakfast.

He doesn’t know how it winds up being 6:30. He loses time, doing all of this and also nothing at all. He’s two and a half Red Bull deep, mixing up the actual pancake batter, when Bri’s alarm tone across the room pulls him out of his haze.

“ _ Shit _ ,” he hisses, and nearly knocks over his frying pan. It’s 6:30 already? The kitchen is a  _ mess _ , and he’s been stuck in the distractible part of his brain for the better half of the past two hours, and now he looks like he’s made a huge mess, and—

The alarm stops going off, and he hears the mattress shift. He’s rinsing off the questionable spatula he’s been using to mix the batter in the sink when he hears her voice. “Babe?”

“Hey—  _ hey _ , good morning.” He turns, and puts his back to the counter, like it’ll hide the actual disaster he’s created. “Happy birthday,” he adds. “Did you sleep okay?”

Bri is sitting up halfway in bed, and she doesn’t answer his question. “What are—” She yawns, and holds a hand to her mouth, which is really fucking cute, the way her eyes get all wrinkled up like this, and he just— loves her, and wishes he weren’t so useless, wishes he could give her the world. When she finishes her sentence, her voice is raspy.  _ That’s _ cute, too. “What’re you doing over there?”

“I’m, uh.” And busted. He might as well own up to the mess. “Well, I realize now that it looks like a bomb went off in here, but don’t worry; I’ll fix it. I was just— well, breakfast. I’m making breakfast. But it’s not ready yet. It will be. Promise.” He lets all his breath out at once, then tries a grin. “But did you? Sleep okay?”

Again, she doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she swings her legs off the side of the bed, and gets up to walk across the room. He meets her halfway, as she’s combing back her hair, a blonde, wavy, bedhead-y and beautiful mess. She’s in pajama shorts and a tank top, and he may be sleep-deprived and totally useless, but he is the luckiest guy on this planet. “How long’ve you been up?” she asks.

He rests his hands, gently, on her waist, and looks down to meet her eyes, which are hazy with sleep but always so fucking pretty. “I… don’t know if you would love the answer to that question,” he replies, because she’d see right through him even if he wanted to lie about it.

She smiles, but it’s a sympathetic expression, like she can see the Red Bull coursing through his veins or some shit like that. “Answer anyway.”

“Um.” Okay, busted. For real this time. While she hooks her arms around his neck, he tries to gather an explanation. “Okay, so I  _ may _ not have slept, but hear me out, okay? I wanted to make sure I had stuff in a row so that when you woke up, it’d all be good for you, since I know we kinda have, like, a limited window here, and I didn’t want you to just have to eat, like, peanut butter toast on your birthday, right? Like, that would suck, and also, I was already up because of work, and I had stuff to do anyway, so basically, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t sleep at all,  _ but _ on the bright side, there  _ is  _ pancake batter ready for you, and I promise I’m gonna clean up all the cooking shit ASAP because I know it looks like a war zone in this kitchen right now—”

“Reid.”

He stops. Her voice is gentle, and she’s smiling— it’s not the pity smile anymore, but just a regular smile. She threads her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he breathes, almost instinctively. “Sorry. That was so much. You just woke up. Hi. I love you. Happy birthday. You look really hot right now.”

Bri laughs, and leans up, on tiptoe, until her forehead is right on his. “Reid,” she repeats, even  _ more _ gently, and he lets out all his breath again, closes his eyes. “Take a deep breath.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He tries to do as she says. It’s really not hard to breathe; he just forgets that’s a necessary bodily task from time to time. No big whoop. “I promise I’ll clean it up. And I’ll make the pancakes, and— wait,  _ shit _ !” The realization hits him all at once, and his stomach sinks. “ _ Shit _ . Fuck. I don’t think we have whipped cream.”

“Whipped cream?” Bri asks, and she sort of laughs, like she’s confused, but this is  _ very _ bad, because that’s a necessary part of any balanced pancake breakfast, right?

“Fuck,” he repeats, and then groans, bumping his forehead against hers lightly. “Fuck, babe; I’m so sorry. I knew I was forgetting something. I can go out, though. Maybe while you shower? I can get it on the corner—”

“ _ Babe _ ,” Bri says, and it occurs to him that he has once again forgotten to breathe. But when he meets her eyes again, she’s smiling, kind of laughing, and she shakes her head. “Shut up.”

“What?” He blinks. His glasses fog up a little, with how close their faces are, and he squints through them toward her. “I really will go out and get it. What are birthday pancakes without whipped—”

Bri slides her hands up to either side of his face, and she shakes her head again. “Just shut up and kiss me, okay?”

The pit leaves his stomach, and he stops in his tracks. “Oh,” he says, and then laughs, too. “Okay. I can do that.”

It’s a kiss that stops the racing in his brain, which it really always does; she just knows how to do that by existing. It becomes two, and then three, and when they pull apart, Reid can breathe normally again.

“You didn’t have to stay up all night because of me,” she tells him, voice still gentle, eyes still on him.

“I’m sorry,” he groans. “I didn’t really— I mean, I  _ really _ didn’t want you to have a lame morning.”

“Well, that was very sweet of you,” she replies. Her eyes are catching the sunrise light that edges in through the window. He could get distracted by that. By her body. By every freckle on her face. He is, after all, easily distractible. “But,” Bri adds, “as long as my morning has you in it, I promise you, there’s nothing lame about it.”

He laughs, and kind of feels  _ sheepish _ , like he might be blushing. “Okay.” He doesn’t deserve her, but he’ll take her at her word.

“C’mere.” She pulls him down for another kiss, and, yeah,  _ this _ he can do. The apartment is way too small, and he is a human disaster, but she loves him anyway, for some reason he still can’t figure out, and he’ll never stop being grateful for that.

“Thank you,” she says, when they pause to breathe again. “I’m excited for pancakes.”

“I’ll make them good,” he assures her, and she laughs.

“I know you will,” she replies, and then smiles with half her mouth, so her one dimple shows, and that is fucking  _ adorable _ . Holy Christ. He might be sleep-deprived, but if looks could kill… “But,” she adds, with that smirk still lingering, “not yet.”

“Not yet?” he echoes, and blames the sleep deprivation for how slow the realization is. “Right, yeah. Because you should shower, right? Get ready for work?”

“I think I have a distinct amount of time before I  _ actually _ have to be ready for work,” she replies, and  _ ohhhh _ . Oh. Okay.

_ This _ , too, he can do.

“I think I understand you,” he tries.

Bri winks. “You definitely understand me,” she says, and then grabs him by the hand and pulls him back toward their bed. “And plus, it’s my birthday.”

He  _ almost _ makes a birthday suit joke, and then decides that puns are not an effective method of seduction today. Not that Bri really needs seducing. Right this second, anyway.

“I’m so honored,” he says, instead, and grins when she pushes him down to sit on the edge of the mattress. He holds her by the waist and waits, still smirking. “You mean to say you want me to be your present?”

“Something like that,” she replies, with a shrug, and then pushes him so he falls backwards, and he gets exactly three seconds to laugh at the ceiling before she’s kissing him and he gets to move on to something much, much better than rambling about his failures as a boyfriend in the middle of the kitchen.

Breakfast can wait.


	30. winter break plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Quinn talks to his theatre professor about winter break plans.  
> There was no prompt here— I just got the idea. Here's a glance into the fascinating, and heartbreaking, internal psychology of one Quinn Michael Cooper. Set right around the time everything goes to shit with his home life in Michigan. (Curious about that? Check out chapters 4, 5, and 10 of this collection, but especially chapter 4.) Content warning for direct discussion of off-screen homophobia.

_ junior year  _ |  _ december _

“Any big plans for the break, Quinn?”

Quinn startles, but only slightly, at Dr. C’s question. He knew she was here, because she’s always around, and he knew  _ she _ knew that  _ he _ was here, since he’s far from the first Kiersey Drama student to do his homework in the Beckett Center. The room adjacent to Dr. C’s office, where Maggie, Allison, Amara, and other drama student regulars tend to stake out, is a nice place to sit and work, or to talk, even to gossip. Today, Quinn is just studying. He needed a change of scenery; his dorm room felt a bit too small.

Dr. C herself is just passing by the room, so it seems. Or, actually— she’s making photocopies. It’s a perfectly sensible thing to be doing, and because she knows and cares about her students, she’s making conversation. Obviously. Which is why Quinn feels guilty that her simple, friendly question makes his stomach turn over on itself.

He glances to her, and her back is turned; she’s at the copy machine. He wonders if it would be ethical to pretend his hearing aids aren’t on, then decides against that and takes a deep breath. “Actually,” he says, after far too pregnant of a pause, “yes, in a way.” He folds his hands on top of his physical chemistry textbook. “I’m going to Arizona.”

“Arizona!” Dr. C echoes, and smiles over her shoulder. “How exciting. A vacation?”

He lets out his breath, and shakes his head. He hopes none of his internal hurt shows on his face. He’s always been good at hiding things, a truth that has come around to bite him when he least expected it to. “Not exactly,” he says. “I’m staying with my boyfriend’s family.”

“Ooh.” Dr. C’s smile widens, and she raises her eyebrows over the top of her glasses. “Meeting the parents, I see. You must be looking forward to that.”

“I am,” he says, which is completely true— he’s techncially meeting the  _ parent _ , singular, and he already met Mrs. Hernandez, albeit briefly, last summer when the tour stopped in Phoenix— but nonetheless, he  _ is _ looking forward to it. Sebastián’s family have been nothing but kind to him, nothing but welcoming. He deserves none of their hospitality, and for it, he’s grateful beyond words.

Dr. C looks back to the copier, and shuffles a few papers. Quinn is about to go back to his textbook when she turns again, and fully toward him this time. She fastens her photocopies all together with a pink clip, then tucks them under her arm and leans on the machine. “So how long will you be staying with them?”

Quinn swallows, and holds his own. It’s a perfectly friendly question, because Dr. C is a perfectly friendly person. He’s on the board of her drama club, not to mention one of the handful of students who are most frequently present in the Beckett Center in general. She’s his favorite professor on this campus. It makes complete sense that she’d entertain a normal, jovial conversation with him about winter break, given that winter break is less than two weeks away. It isn’t her fault that the subject makes him feel ill. She doesn’t— couldn’t— know.

“Actually,” he tells her, “I’ll be with them for the whole break.”

“Oh!” Dr. C looks surprised— and of course she does. Because this is an unusual answer. She knows he’s from Michigan. Truth be told, he’s not sure he can even say that he’s ‘from Michigan’ anymore, since he’s no longer welcome in the residence he referred to as his ‘home’ for eight years. But as far as Dr. C knows, he’s from Michigan. Which is why this answer must be confusing for her. “Well,” she says, like she’s searching for a neutral thing to say, “that’ll be a nice visit.”

He nods, and looks down at his clasped hands. His knuckles have turned white, without him meaning for them to. He tries to relax, to keep his composure. He’s never had any difficulty keeping it before. “I believe it will, yes,” he says, and looks up to her again to add, “They’re lovely people.”

Dr. C smiles, but it’s a confused smile. He feels, in some way, that he’s lying to her— omitting truth isn’t  _ lying _ , exactly, or at least he didn’t consider it lying until all his lies with his grandparents came unraveling around him. But he feels dishonest, sitting here before Dr. C.

So he takes another deep breath, and does his best to explain. “My grandparents, in Michigan… they, ah, they recently learned that I have a boyfriend.” He does his best to relax his muscles, but he feels tense from head to toe. He hopes it doesn’t show. “So, as it happens, I’m no longer welcome in Michigan.”

Dr. C’s entire expression changes, from friendly-if-confused curiosity to flat-out dismay, and that’s where it’s most difficult for Quinn to keep his composure. “Oh, Quinn,” she whispers, and shakes her head. “My God, I’m so sorry.”

All at once, he feels like crying, but he won’t. He is so very tired of crying. He’s done more than enough of it, these past few weeks. He thinks he’s done more crying this month than he has in the rest of his life combined. That may be dramatic, but goodness. He can’t get a break.

It isn’t Dr. C’s fault. He keeps his shoulders square, keeps his head held high. “Please,” he says, “don’t apologize. I’m alright.”

“But I  _ am _ sorry,” she insists, and she crosses the small room, to sit down across the table from him. She sets her photocopies aside. “Are you okay?”

Quinn is not okay. He is not even close. These weeks have been awful, with years of hurt he’d rather not think about having resurfaced out of nowhere, in nightmares and absent thought, with the sting of his grandparents’ hate and rejection still ringing in his aching head. Sebastián, and Quinn’s friends, have been absolutely lovely, the shining light in a very dim end to his semester. Going to Arizona will be a relief, he knows— it’ll be an escape, and he’s so grateful that this boy is welcoming him so easily into his world. But for now, he’s not okay. He knows this much.

The problem is that he can’t tell Dr. C any of this. To be sure, she’s his favorite professor, and they have a good relationship— but it’s a student-professor relationship, and that’s a professional relationship of sorts, a relationship where you talk about school and theatre, not about the difficulties of your home life. She isn’t a high school teacher, someone easy to imprint upon. She’s distinctly more different from that. And the last thing he wants is for Dr. C, of all people, to see him lose his composure. She’s done so much for him in the way of theatre— she’s put so much faith in him. She needs to see him stand tall against adversity, not crumble in its face.

So he says, “Yes.” For emphasis, he nods, and swallows back the urge to cry. “I’m very grateful for my boyfriend,” he adds, another entire truth. “He’s been lovely. So have my friends. I have a good support system here, so I’m quite alright.”

Dr. C’s expression stays neutral, but her voice, hesitant and sympathetic, is completely incredulous. “Is there anything you need?” she asks.

He shakes his head. Asking for her help, he knows, would be a distinct overstep of the student-professor relationship. He needs her to worry about where she’ll cast him in the spring musical, not about his emotional well-being. “I very much appreciate that,” he replies, “but I assure you, I’m alright.”

It hurts to lie to her face, but he has no choice. He fills the space with truths, like it’ll make up for that. “I have everything squared away with my flight, and I’m beginning to pack. My boyfriend—”

“Quinn,” Dr. C says, and he stops, listens. “Just listen for one moment, okay?”

He lets all his breath out. The exhale is shakier than he’d like it to be. “Of course.”

“I don’t know your whole situation,” Dr. C begins, “and I can’t expect to, but I want you to know that my wife went through something similar with her family.” His stomach knots up, hearing this, but he holds his own. “And if you ever need to talk to somebody, I’m here, alright? Don’t hesitate.”

He nods. He clasps his hands again, but this time, in his lap. “Of course,” he repeats. “Thank you, Dr. C.”

“I mean it,” she says. “I know you like to be on top of things, and believe me, you’re a very responsible student. But you have to take care of yourself, too. Especially at a time like this.” She shakes her head, and her eyes go sympathetic again. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Quinn. No one should have to.”

Quinn exhales again. It’s getting harder to breathe and hold back his tears at the same time. Everything he’s been struggling to keep under the surface is threatening to spill, in the presence of someone whose opinion he cares about too much to let it. “Thank you,” he says, and can’t find the words for much more.

“You know where to find me if you ever need to talk, okay?” she says, and he nods. “I’m just an email away. Or stop by my office. Anytime.”

“I will,” he replies, though he’s relatively certain he won’t. “I appreciate that very much. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” She reaches for her photocopies, and seems to take a second to figure out if she should go or not. “I’ll be right next door if you need me, okay?”

“Of course.” He takes one last deep breath. “Yes. Alright.” He pats his textbook. “I’ll just… be doing my homework.”

She’s halfway to her office door when she turns and asks again. “Quinn, are you sure you’re alright?”

He swallows. He keeps his composure. What more can he do? “Of course. I’m quite alright.”

He knows she doesn’t believe him, but if he lets even a bit of his guard down, for even a moment, the entire thing will crash down, and he’ll be helpless, embarrassed, a mess. Only Sebastián has seen that, and he has to keep it that way.

When she’s safely back in her office, he leaves the study room, and goes down to the hall to the bathroom, where he can cry. He hates every single tear, every sharp, uneven breath. He stays there, locked in a stall, until he’s gotten a hold of himself, and then goes back and finishes studying. It’s the only thing he can do.

He’ll be in Arizona in ten days. He’s counting them.

Until then, he has to be okay.


	31. ace gang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a brief while back for a friend in a gift exchange! We know based on previous Remy & Kai content that the two of them have a lot in common: they’re both French-Canadian nerds (and I say ‘nerds’ as affectionately as is humanly possible), who love history, preserved art, and ancient literature, and also small animals and reptiles. They’re also both aromantic and asexual. I don’t know if I’ve ever actually stated this plainly, but Kai is the one who teaches Remy what “aromantic” and “asexual” actually mean. What you’re about to read is a ficlet in which that conversation takes place!  
> Or, in which: Remy sees his friend from class in the library, and has an unexpectedly affirming conversation.

_ freshman year  _ |  _ november _

Remy is having a good Saturday night.

Sure, it’s probably not what  _ other _ people would consider to be a fun way to spend a Saturday, especially not most people on this campus, if the party scene is any indication of that. But for Remy, it works, and he figures the rest doesn’t matter much. He’s completely occupied an entire corner in the library, on the top floor, where you have to be quiet. It’s near the stacks of the history section— because he figures best to keep his favorite material close, so that he can go and get a new book when he finishes with the one he’s on. Which, right now, is a French transcription of Joan of Arc’s heresy trial.

He’s in what more meditative people might call a state of zen. He has his legs pulled up on his chair— one of the library’s coveted, comfy armchairs— and a warm Americano from the café on the table next to him. He probably should at some point eat an actual dinner, but right now, he’s content with the last of the Coffee Crisp that he got in the Halloween package Maman sent him.

He knows there’s a party at Beech Street, and maybe he’d be there if Nando and Ben were, but both of them had other plans tonight. Remy doesn’t mind. He wound up here, and he couldn’t be more content. The library is his favorite place on campus— except maybe the rink. And that’s a hard maybe.

He turns the page in his book. The cold wind from outside is pounding against the nearest window, and beyond it, campus is lit by street lamps. The trial is just getting good— Joan has just been brought in for questioning.

At first, he doesn’t notice the person in the stacks. After all, he’s dialed into reading, and it’s really, really easy to forget what’s going on around you when you’re dialed into reading. When he does register that there’s a person nearby, he only sees them in his peripheral vision— in the darker end of one of the nearby history stacks, somebody is rifling through a shelf, looking through the books. He pays them no mind. After all, that’s what he was doing an hour ago, when he got here.

He doesn’t look up, even when the person’s movement gets closer. In fact, he barely even thinks about the fact that someone is here at all— he’s more interested in Joan, and that stays the case right up until he hears the whisper. “Remy!”

Remy jumps, and startles, just a little. Is he hearing voices of library spirits? “Remy,” the voice repeats, and it’s a hushed whisper, but it only takes him a second more to realize it’s coming from the person in the stacks, not a Dunn Memorial Library ghost. It’s dark in the stacks, since they turn some lights off in here on the weekends, and Remy is squinting at the person, confused, for a solid couple of seconds before he sees purple hair.

Kai waves, and tiptoes to the edge of the stack near him, which casts xir into actual light. Remy should have realized. Kai sits next to him in their European history seminar, and they’ve hung out semi-regularly outside class to study, which is how they’ve discovered they share a lot of common interests. Remy likes Kai, a lot— xe’s been really nice to him for no reason, and xe helps him keep up with all the fast-paced English in class. “Hey,” Kai says, and smiles as xe switches to French. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, well, uh…” Remy surveys his reading nook, then shrugs. “I can’t complain at all, actually.”

“What are you reading?” Kai approaches, still keeping xir voice low— they’re technically not supposed to talk at all on this floor, but then again, Remy can’t see anyone else around up here. He flips his book up so Kai can see the cover, and xe nods like xe approves. “Wow, nice! There’s nothing like some good old-fashioned burning at the stake.”

Remy hums, as he slides his bookmark into the Joan book to save his place. “We don’t burn enough people at the stake anymore.”

“I agree.” Kai sinks down into the chair next to his, and, just like he did, pulls xir feet up. Xe’s wearing purple low-top Converse; they’re almost the exact same color as xir hair. “They did it right in the Middle Ages.  _ Hey _ — by the way, what history are you in for next semester?”

“Early Middle Ages,” he replies, and Kai’s face lights up.

“ _ Me, too _ ,” xe cries, or more like whisper-shouts at him, and high-fives him across the space between their chairs. He smiles, too— it’ll be nice to be in class with a friend he already knows.

“I guess our seating agreement lives on another semester,” he tells xir.

“It’s going to be such a good class,” xe says. “Have you met Professor Dupont?”

“I think I’ve seen her at department stuff,” he replies, “but I don’t think I’ve  _ met _ her.”

“She’s amazing,” Kai assures. “I had her for Ancient Greece last year. You’ll love her.”

“That’s good.” This is one of the nice things about having a friend in your major who’s a year ahead of you— Kai knows all the ropes of the history department. He puts his book down on the table, and swaps it for his drink, then leans back in his chair. It really is the comfiest place to sit in the whole library.

“Sorry if you were busy,” Kai says, suddenly, xir voice still at a whisper. “I just came looking for something to read, and I saw you, so I thought I’d—”

“I wasn’t busy,” he interrupts, because really, he wasn’t. “I was just… uh, reading, I guess. But not busy.” He wonders if that sounds awkward. He hopes it doesn’t. It’s nice that xe came to say hi.

“Okay,” Kai says, “so you don’t want me to leave? Because don’t worry, if you do. I can let you get back to your heresy trials.”

He laughs, a little, and shakes his head. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Alright.” Kai tucks xir legs further under xirself, then rests xir hand under xir chin and remarks, “Y’know, of all the people I know, you’re the one I’d most expect to also be in the library on a Saturday night.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.”

Kai laughs into xir hand. “Well, considering I’m  _ also _ in the library on a Saturday, I’d say it’s more like a declaration of camaraderie.”

“Oh.” He smiles. “Well— okay.”

“I  _ am _ kind of surprised, though,” xe adds, after a second. “Like, that you don’t have a game or something.”

“Oh, we did have one,” he says. “Yesterday. It was away. We got home this morning.”

Kai leans forward, across the arm of xir chair. “Did you win?”

Remy grins. “Three to zero.”

“ _ Nice _ ,” xe declares, and gives him a light high five, like xe wants to be enthusiastic but minimize the noise. “So you have the night off?”

“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his coffee— it’s still warm— and then provides xir with a probably unnecessary explanation. “It’s just— well, the team upperclassmen are probably partying, but my freshman friends, uh, Ben and Sebastián? They’re both on dates tonight.” He almost laughs, but then shrugs instead. “So I’m here.”

Kai looks hesitant, like xe isn’t sure how to react. “Aw,” xe says. “Did you get, like, left, or— uh— is this a sore subject?”

“Oh— no.” He shakes his head as emphatically as he can, and adds, “I mean, Nan, or— I mean, Sebastián, he started seeing this guy a couple weeks ago, and Ben has been hanging out with a girl he knows from Rhode Island, so it’s not, like, weird or anything.”

“Well, that’s good.” Kai still looks hesitant. “Still, sorry, though. That they’re on dates and you got ditched.”

“No, you don’t have to be sorry.” He’s trying to figure out the most eloquent way to make sure xe knows xe shouldn’t feel bad, and settles on the simple but clear, “I don’t date.”

“Oh!” For some reason, Kai brightens a lot at that, which, if Remy is being honest, is a relief. He’s had good friendships messed up by weird dating stuff he doesn’t understand before, and this whole time, he’s been praying nothing weird happens with Kai. He would hate to lose xir friendship because he’s awful with things that aren’t friendship. “That’s cool,” Kai says. “I don’t date, either, actually. I think it’s kind of overrated.”

“Exactly,” he says. Recognizing his own sentiments about dating in what Kai is saying feels kind of like a breath of fresh air. He means to say more, but Kai keeps talking before he can figure out exactly what he wants to say.

“Plus,” xe says, brightly, “I’m aro? And asexual, so that kinda takes dating out of my prescription for life.”

Remy squints at xir. He wishes, so badly, that he knew what the heck xe means by this. Since coming to Kiersey, he considers himself to have learned a lot about identity and gender. It started with Ben and Nando, because they were his first friends— Nando being gay was pretty self-explanatory, but Ben taught him the word pansexual. Kai xirself has already taught him stuff, too; after all, xe’s the first agender person he’s met. But he doesn’t know these words, at least not well enough to know their definitions. He figures he’s about to get another lesson. “What does that mean?”

“Oh— you don’t know what aro or ace means?” When he shakes his head no, xe smiles, and, though xe doesn’t have to, explains. “Aro is short for aromantic. It means you don’t have romantic attraction to anybody, no matter their gender. And asexual is the same thing, except that’s with sexual attraction.” Xe pauses, and blows a piece of xir hair out of xir face before xe adds, “I’m both, so I don’t experience any attraction.” Xe flashes two thumbs up. “And that’s why I don’t date! What about you?”

Remy goes over this definition, in his head, a couple of times. It strikes a chord somewhere, and he wonders if it’s weird that he kind of  _ recognizes _ his own experience in the explanation. Maybe he’s projecting. He takes a second, and another sip of coffee, then meets Kai’s eyes. “So you’ve just— never had feelings for anybody?”

“Well, I have plenty of feelings,” Kai laughs. “Just not romantic or sexual ones.”

Remy  _ definitely _ recognizes his own experience, in this. It’s like xe’s describing him, not xirself. Or— well, xe’s obviously describing xirself, but… maybe not  _ only _ xirself. “Is this… like, some kind of condition?”

“What?” Kai furrows xir brow, and shakes xir head. To Remy’s horror, xe looks just slightly offended. “No, it’s just a sexual orientation.”

“Wait, no, I— sorry. I’m sorry.” He winces at himself; can’t he think before he speaks? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t know that this was a thing.”

“It’s definitely a thing.” Kai smiles again, but it’s hesitant. Remy kicks himself internally. He can’t let xir keep thinking that he thinks it’s weird or something— no, he just has to say what he’s actually thinking.

“I asked because I— uh, that’s exactly how I feel,” he tells xir.

And thank God, after that, xe no longer looks offended. Instead, xir smile gets a little bigger. “Wait, you do?”

“Yeah, uh— definitely, yes.” If Kai is describing an orientation, like how Ben describes being pansexual, then this is  _ definitely _ something that applies to him. “So it’s like— you’re not straight or gay or anything else, but you’re just not attracted to anybody?”

“Exactly,” Kai says, with a steady nod, and then beams, and reaches across the space between their chairs to put xir hand on his elbow. “Wait,  _ Remy _ . Are you telling me that this entire time, you’ve been part of the ace gang?”

He gives xir a sheepish smile. “I don’t know what the ace gang is.”

“The gang of people who are asexual!” Kai’s voice gets a little loud on this, in xir apparent enthusiasm, and then xe immediately slaps a hand over xir mouth and starts laughing. “Sorry, I got excited. Someone’s gonna come yell at me.”

“Nobody’s up here but us,” he points out.

“Okay, well—  _ good _ , because— this is so exciting?” Kai turns in xir chair all the way, so they’re facing each other. “As if you weren’t already cool enough.”

“I’m not cool,” he replies. “But I  _ do _ think I’m what you’re talking about.” The validation even in this small conversation is unreal— he had no idea there was a  _ word _ for the way he’s been feeling his entire life. “I thought something was wrong with me.”

“Aw, Remy.” Kai looks sympathetic. “Hey, you’re valid, okay? There’s nothing wrong with you, and there never has been. And it isn’t your fault that you thought that, because society is so focused on dating and sex. If you didn’t know there was a word for it… I totally get feeling like there’s something wrong with you.”

He nods. He can’t believe it. All this time, and he  _ isn’t _ broken. “How did you learn about it?”

Kai shrugs. “The way all teenage introverts with purple hair learn about things,” xe says. “The Internet.”

Now it’s Remy’s turn to be too loud. He laughs into his hand, and gives a cursory look around their area, but he still can’t see anybody, so he thinks they’re fine. “I feel—” he says, when he gets a hold of himself, “I feel like I’m being let in on a secret.”

“It’s not a secret,” Kai replies, pulling out xir phone. “It’s just not that common. Here— hold on.” Xe types for a second, then passes xir phone to him. When he looks at the screen, he finds xe’s opened a webpage— it looks like some kind of informational website. It says  _ AVEN _ at the top— it’s an acronym, he guesses. “There you go,” Kai says, proudly. “Proof it’s a real thing.”

“I believed you before,” he tells xir, and smiles a little, then reads down the webpage.

For the rest of the night, Kai helps him learn. There are words for things he never knew there were words for, communities he never realized he could belong to. It’s more helpful than he even knows how to begin to thank xir for.

Remy isn’t sure he’s felt more seen in his life, than tonight in the library.


	32. morning dish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I hate the title of this one just as much as you do, but I couldn't come up with anything better. Have a fun, quick dose of Freshman Ben and Nando, set the morning after Nando meets Quinn.  
> In which: After the Kiersey Hockey Halloween party, Nando has some news to share about someone he met last night.

_freshman year_ | _october_

The first Halloween party of college goes extremely successfully for Ben.

So successfully, in fact, that he doesn’t even get back to his room until approximately four in the morning. Unfortunately, his roommate is asleep, so he has nobody to rave to about the very very sexy girl from the basketball team he spent the wee hours of the morning with, but then again, Nando is a responsible citizen, and Ben doesn’t want to wake him so he can dish about a hookup. Instead, he sheds his costume, crawls into bed in his boxers, and waits until morning.

When morning comes, Nando wakes up first. Ben knows this because when he comes to, sometime around ten in the morning, with autumn light beaming into his eyes like a hangover later through the window, Nando is not only already up, but already showered and dressed. He’s chilling on his bed typing on his phone, and smiling at his screen while he does it.

When Ben sits up in bed, blinking the light out of his eyes, Nando gives him a wave. “Hey, man.” He’s chipper, still grinning, and definitely not feeling the effect of last night the way Ben is.

Ben yawns, and stretches both arms to the ceiling. “‘Sup,” he gets out, after what feels like a prolonged, yawn-caused delay. He rubs out a crick in his neck, then, to Nando, says, “How long have you been up?”

Nando is typing on his phone again. “Like an hour?” he says, then shrugs. He sleeps his display, then puts the phone down on his chest. He’s still smiling. “What, uh… what time did you get in?”

Ben pretends like he has to think about it for a second. “Around four,” he remarks, after the consideration.

Nando lets off a vaguely impressed chuckle. “You don’t fuck around.”

“Actually,” Ben corrects, finger-gunning him, “that’s exactly what I _was_ doing.”

Nando laughs. “I hate you so much.”

Ben winks at him. “Most people do.” He grabs his most recent half-finished water bottle from his bedside table, and downs the rest in one gulp— which definitely clears his head a little. From next to the bottle, he takes a blue scrunchie, and starts to tie up his hair while he looks again to Nando. He’s texting again, so Ben gives him a minute before he begins his dishing about Jess.

And he _intends_ to tell him about Jess. Or at least to make an offhand comment about how he’s lost his basketball team virginity, to be funny. Nando may not be able to relate to his sentiments about girls, but when Ben comes back from a hookup, Nando usually asks where he was.

So he’s about to tell him. He waits for him to be off his phone before he does. But when Nando puts his phone down again, he folds his hands on his stomach, and _he_ talks first.

“So, like,” he says, smiling at the ceiling, “not to jinx it?” It’s only right then that Ben realizes something might be up for _him_ , and his next sentence confirms it. “But I’m pretty sure I met the cutest guy on this campus last night.”

Ben’s internal simp sensor rings off the hook. “Oh, did you?” he chirps. “Did you really? The cutest guy on this campus?” The doofy smile on Nando’s face is a fucking _delight_ to behold, and so is the way it keeps widening as Ben makes fun of him. He can’t believe he didn’t notice this right off the bat. “You better start talking right fucking now, Seb,” he declares, and lowers his voice in his unparalleled glee to whisper, “Did you get lucky?”

“What? No!” Nando laughs, and shakes his head. He twists his hands where they’re resting on his stomach, and shrugs, with the simp smile lingering. “We just talked.”

“ _We just talked_ ,” Ben mocks, and cackles, as he drums on his own pillow. “ _Dude_ !” He wants to jump on his bed. Nando meeting a guy is good on its own, and even better when you consider the sheer amount of _chirping_ this gives Ben ammunition for. “Who? When? At the party?”

“Yeah, at the party.” Nando ruffles a hand through his curls, then his smile widens. “He agreed to go on a date with me.”

“ _What_?!” Ben very well may be waking up all their dorm neighbors, and he gives a literal negative amount of fucks about that. He slaps his pillow again. “You fucking casanova!”

Nando says nothing, but peeks at his phone, and keeps smiling when he goes to type again. “Jesus Christ,” Ben whispers, in his awe. “Are you texting him right now?”

Nando nods, and Ben yells into his pillow. His best friend, who got cheated on and dumped the third week of school, is a complete ball of _mush_ over some guy right now. Ben could not be more fucking amped. And also he’s going to get details. ASAP.

“Who, who, who?” he says, as soon as Nando’s attention is away from his phone again. “Who is it? Do I know him? Do you have a picture?”

“I don’t think you know him,” Nando replies, “but, uh, yeah, I think I have a picture. Hold on.” He picks up his phone again, and Ben does his best not to vibrate out of his skin. While Nando surfs through his phone— not texting, this time— he announces, through his smile, “His name is Quinn.”

Nando looks about to melt, and Ben is going to combust over it. Wait until Remy gets a load of this. “Nanny’s fucking wheeling,” he shouts, for nobody to hear, and claps a couple times. “ _Dude_. You’re a fucking legend!”

Nando laughs. He taps something on his screen, then says, like it’s no big deal, “All I did was get his number.”

“And get him to agree to a date with you!” Ben cries. “All in the same night? That takes skill!”

Nando rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop smiling. “Look who’s talking,” he says, and then announces, “I sent you his Instagram.”

“Oh, _say less_ .” Ben leans to grab his phone from the nightstand, and grins a little when he opens Instagram to find a follow request from Jess. He accepts it, then clicks on the profile Nando sent him. It brings him to a _quinn cooper🌈🌷🧏‍♂️_ , whose bio informs Ben that he’s _kiersey college ‘22_ and _GRTA_ , whatever that second part means. A few taps through an aesthetically coordinated profile in muted, warm colors land him on a post from September 24th, in which a ginger twink with a white scarf is smiling in the apple orchard next to a very pretty blonde girl dressed all in pink. “Ginger boy?” he asks Nando, who’s texting yet again.

“Yeah,” Nando says, and then smiles up from his phone. “He’s cute, right?”

Ben cackles again, and nearly falls off his mattress. “Dude, you’re fucking _simping_ right now.”

“Stop!” Nando’s smile hasn’t faded. Ben takes a minute to look through other pictures on Quinn’s Instagram. His most recent post is from October 6th, and it’s a shot of a tree Ben recognizes as one outside the performing arts center, in peak foliage. _it’s a lovely time of year🍂_ , reads his caption. Other, older posts include a big cast photo from some kind of play, a bunch of tulips in a huge garden, and three cats on a sofa. “Wow,” Ben remarks, once he’s done stalking (for now). When he looks up at Nando, he has to shake himself out to keep from yelling again. “ _Dude_ ,” he says, instead. “You’re in deep. I can see it on your face.”

Nando presses his cheek into his fist, like he’s trying to rub the blush out. “I had a good night,” he murmurs, smiling down at his downturned phone in his lap.

A ‘good night’ seems like an understatement.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Ben announces, and jumps out of bed. “I’m gonna get dressed,” he starts, sauntering to his closet to prove it. “And then,” he adds, looking over his shoulder once he yanks his KMH sweatshirt off a hanger, “you’re gonna buy me brunch.”

Nando laughs. “Whaaat? No fair,” he says, but he doesn’t seem too pressed about it.

“And _then_ ,” Ben continues, while he pulls out a pair of jeans, “you’re gonna tell me all about your new ginger friend.”

He waits for Nando to protest, but he doesn’t. Instead, when Ben turns again, Nando is smiling all the same, with his arms folded all smugly.

“Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”

Ben is going to lose his mind. For the first time, things seem to be looking up for Nando in the love department. He’s still smiling at his phone, like a fucking simp ass.

Ben laughs as he gets dressed. _Good for him_.

Ben doesn’t know it, but years down the road, he’ll tell this story— among many others— at Nando’s wedding to this new ginger friend. For now, though, he’s getting brunch and a dishing session out of this. It’s going to be even better than the dishing session he expected.

That’s another win for the fucking _boys_.


	33. midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, another very quick one. It's New Year's Eve; I couldn't resist. Have some Happy Reid.  
> In which: Reid is throwing a New Year's Eve party in New York.  
> [Original prompt: reid burke throws a banger new year party send tweet](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/post/639060574502895616/reid-burke-throws-a-banger-new-year-party-send)

_four years after (reid & bri's) graduation\ _ _december/january_

_new year’s eve, 2022-23_

Bri lost track of her husband ten minutes ago.

This would be okay, because sometimes, at parties, these things just happen. You get caught up talking to somebody, and then suddenly you can’t find the person you came here with. Bri guesses she didn’t ‘come here’ with Reid, given that it’s their party and they’re the hosts, but all the same, she gets that being separated from him is just something that happens.

She’s been having a great conversation with his friend Myra, a fellow writer at SNL, for the past twenty or so minutes. Bri loves Myra, and is so, so grateful that she actually gets _along_ with Reid’s friends. It’s not that she has a bad history when it comes to befriending the people he attracts socially, it’s just... moving to New York was a lot. She grew up in the middle of nowhere, so much so that even Kiersey, New Hampshire seemed like a big town when she moved there for college. New York has been a dream of hers for a long time, and a dream of Reid’s, too— that’s one of the many reasons they fit together so well. It’s just that dreaming about moving to New York and then actually doing it are two different things.

Luckily for her, that was almost five years ago. And though it was hard at first, things are looking up. Which is why she’s no longer stressed out about getting along with Reid’s showbiz friends.

Anyway, the point is. It would be fine that she lost Reid at their party, since it’s just as much her party as it is his. But it’s four minutes to midnight. Which makes it a small problem.

“I have no idea where Reid went,” she tells Myra, who laughs.

“I feel like he’s always hard to pin down at these things,” Myra says, scanning the room as she speaks. “I... don’t think I see him right now.”

“Neither do I,” she replies, and goes on her tiptoes like that’ll help (it doesn’t). Their place is packed— in a good way, but still packed— and it’s hard to pick Reid out of the group. She glances at the time— 11:57— and gives Myra an apologetic smile. “I think I’ll go track him down.”

Myra lifts her drink, with a smile. “Cheers to that!” she says, and Bri makes her way into the party on her own devices. She smiles at friends as she goes, and rakes the room. She truly has no idea where he went, and she’s wondering if she should call him or something. The odds he has his phone on him are slim, but even still.......

And then— “Babe!”

His voice cuts through the crowd, loud and full of energy; he’s at peak extrovert right now, and he’ll probably have to unwind from it later. Right now, though, nothing about him looks forced— when she catches sight of him through the crowd, he looks— _exuberant_ , almost, like he’s having the time of his life. His plaid tie is crooked against his white shirt, and he’s still wearing the gold, plastic New Year’s crown he started the night off in. His smile, Bri can tell, is completely natural. There’s no sign of Reid’s mental health ruining the night for him.

He genuinely, completely, is having a great time.

Bri smiles, and waves. “I thought I lost you,” she calls, as he makes his way to her.

“Me, too!” Reid cries. He grabs her hands when he reaches her. “Sorry; I’m sorry. I got Tommy talking, and you know how he gets.” He grins, as she laughs a little and nods— Reid’s comic friend Tom is a trip. “And I _just now_ realized what time it was,” he adds. “We’re almost there!”

Bri squeezes his hands. “We _are_ almost there,” she replies, and smiles up at him. He’s definitely a little buzzed, but in a fun way, not a bad way. “How do you feel?”

“I’ll tell you,” he says, and then leans right down to her ear. She can smell the champagne on him, and his cheek is warm when it presses against hers. She laughs, and waits. When he speaks, he’s still sort of talking loudly, to be heard over the party noise— but she knows it’s just for her. “Babe, I feel like a million bucks.”

“Good,” Bri laughs. She pulls back to meet his eyes, and holds his cheek for just a second before she drops her hand. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“Me, too!” Reid cries. He pulls her by the hand, and it takes her a second to realize he’s moving them toward the window. “C’mon,” he says. “We’ll see all the fireworks this way.”

Bri follows, and keeps laughing as she goes. She can’t help it— this man makes the entire world brighter. Their apartment is full of champagne, plastic gold crowns, and friends from a high life she never dreamed could be hers. Or, _theirs_. They’re about to start a new year, on the highest point they’ve started any year in their lives. Things are good— things are looking up.

Reid is right. It’ll make you feel like a million bucks.

When the countdown starts, it’s like a traveling murmur through the general noise. Reid is fully an instigator of it, egging friends around them on. They start around twenty, and by ten, it’s _really_ getting loud— so Bri joins in.

“... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... _happy new year_!”

Both inside and outside the windows of their apartment, the city explodes. Bri can see fireworks going up all over the place straight out in the dark night, but it’s an even better sight to look out over what’s going on inside. There’s a little confetti, though she isn’t sure what it came from, and it feels like the whole place is glittering.

Best of all is Reid. He cheers the new year for a moment, and then grabs her and delivers a New Year’s kiss that could sweep a girl right off her feet. Bri stays steady, for the most party, and laughs when they pull away.

“Happy New Year,” he says, so close his glasses are fogging a little. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she tells him, and so, by the city light through the window, surrounded by the party inside, Bri rings in what she feels like is going to be their best year yet.


	34. whole foods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did create a fictional indie music blog/website just for this ficlet. And no, I don't care that the way I formatted this is a little cringey. Have a two-for-one special— a snippet of an interview with Famous Indie Singer Cole, plus a look into an earlier stage in his career!  
> In which: Cole gets recognized at the grocery store.

_ IndieSource.com _

_ Friday, 11/13/2026 _

_ INDIESOURCE EXCLUSIVE: Interview with Cole Kolinsky _

_ Today on the blog, IndieSource sits down with singer-songwriter Cole Kolinsky. November 14th marks the one-year anniversary of the release of his debut album,  _ Greene Street _ , which launched his mainstream success in the indie scene. His first headlining tour, named for his first album, wrapped up on its final stop in his home city of Providence, RI just last week. Cole’s second album,  _ Racing Myself _ , drops January 8th of next year. _

**_IS:_ ** _ It’s been a big year for you, Cole! Can you tell us a little about your first tour? _

**_CK:_ ** _ Oh, tour was a blast. I’m not a super well-traveled person, so getting to go all over the country playing shows was— I mean, it was a complete dream come true. I’d never really done much outside local shows, and then suddenly I’m on a tour bus traveling the country. You can’t even imagine that in your dreams. _

**_IS:_ ** _ With a tour now under your belt, what’s your favorite part of being on the road? _

**_CK:_ ** _ I think hands down, the best part of tour for me was all the people I got to meet. I went out to merch and met with fans after every show, and the sheer number of people who came to hear  _ my _ music— it was a lot to take in. And when I talked to people, and they told me that my music had touched them in one way or another— that’s what tour was really about for me. The experience of connecting with people. It’s one thing to know people at home support you, but it’s another when you’re out on the road and you realize that what you create is reaching, like, thousands of people. It’s unreal. _

**_IS:_ ** Greene Street _ was the album that really put you on the map. What would you say were some of your inspirations for it? _

**_CK:_ ** _ I’d been writing music with an album in mind for years leading up to  _ Greene Street _ , but I never really felt like I had anything coherent until I wrote  _ “to: me,”  _ my first single off the album. That was right after I actually moved onto the street the album is named after, so—  _ [Laughs]  _ I guess you could say that’s when it all started falling into place. _

**_IS:_ ** _ You got pretty close to what you might call ‘overnight fame.’ Is there a moment you recall that it really hit you that things were happening for you in the music world? _

**_CK:_ ** _ Yeah, actually, I think I do have an answer for that one. I think the first time I got recognized in public really clued me in on how big the album was getting. It was earlier this year, in Providence. I was, uh—  _ [Laughs]  _ I was at the grocery store with my boyfriend. _

*

_ five years after (cole’s) graduation  _ |  _ march _

Cole is tired of pretending like he doesn’t hate Whole Foods.

He gets it— Ben likes to shop here. But he will literally  _ never _ understand the point of this grocery store. Aside from, he guesses, selling healthy food or whatever. The problem, in Cole’s opinion, with Whole Foods, is that you can never find anything generic there. Everything is made by super expensive, obscure, all-natural brands you’ve never heard of. You can never just, like… get milk. You have to look through all the oat milk and cashew milk and coconut milk before you can find the 100% Organic All-Natural Five-Dollar Milk.

And forget about getting normal cereal. The pickings are bleak. You can’t find an ounce of sugary, old-fashioned breakfast in the place.

Cole considers it a hate crime.

“Babe, why don’t you just get these?” Ben reaches onto the shelf, and turns around with a box of Puffins. He shakes the blue box, and raises his eyebrows pointedly. “They’re pretty good.”

Cole rubs both of his temples. “I don’t— B, I don’t want to get Puffins; they taste like fucking cardboard.” Ben is laughing at him, which just increases his cereal frustration. “I just want Trix,” he tells him, and surveys the all-natural hipster shelves in despair. “Why don’t they have Trix?”

Ben returns the Puffins to the shelf. “I don’t know that that would fit in with their brand.”

Cole lowers his voice, to avoid his shit-talking being overheard by judgey Whole Foods patrons who swear by this place. “That’s because their brand is stupid,” he hisses, and Ben laughs at him some more— or really, just chuckles, and ruffles his hair where his green beanie isn’t covering it.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Ben says. It’s easy to forgive him, because his choice in grocery stores may make shopping a pain in the ass, but he’s Ben, so whatever. “I’ll take you to another store, if you want.”

Cole sighs. That would be easier, but he doesn’t want to cause an issue, so he sweeps his eyes over the shelves again and wonders if he can make peace with the lack of good taste among Whole Foods cereal brand selectors. “I guess I can  _ try  _ one of these.”

“Okay,” Ben says, still grinning lopsidedly, and then sidles up next to him. “I’m gonna go get trail mix,” he murmurs, sliding a hand down to squeeze his. “If you can’t find something you like, it’s no biggie, okay?”

“I’ll try to,” he replies, and sighs at the shelf in what he hopes is a dramatic manner. “But only for you.”

Ben squeezes his hand again, kisses his cheek, and then walks away, taking their carriage with him as he goes. “Have fun.”

Cole watches him round the corner and leave the aisle, then stares down the shelves. The rows of health food cereal all seem the same— granola this, sugar-free that, all-natural whatever. It’s all good and fine for your average Whole Foods customer, like a yoga instructor or whatever. It’s probably even fine for Ben. It’s just… Cole is a creature of habit, and he likes eating his sugary cereal out of a mug while sitting on the counter at home before he starts his day. It helps with his creative process. And also he likes it.

Routines. They’re important.

He’s so caught up in resentfully staring at the healthy cereals that he doesn’t register when someone else walks into the aisle. He twists the sole of his Docs into the ground, and folds his arms while he studies the inventory. Organic Cinnamon Crunch Cereal looks okay, kind of like Cinnamon Toast Crunch for healthy people, but that’s not really his favorite regular cereal to eat in the first place. There are a bunch of unsweetened Cheerio knockoffs, and even more of Raisin Bran. Annie’s Organic Fruity Bunnies & Blossoms are multicolored. Could they do the trick?

He reaches for the shelf— but that’s when he sees the person in his peripheral vision. “Oh—!” There’s someone standing off his shoulder, a normal distance away, and he realizes all at once that he’s completely blocking them off from all the cereal. “Oh, shit,” he says, and looks to the person as he steps back. It’s a probably college-aged girl, with her hair dyed blue. “Uh, I’m so sorry— I didn’t, uh— I didn’t see you. Am I, uh, in your way?” He tucks his hair under his beanie, from where Ben messed it up, and becomes increasingly aware that the girl is just looking at him as he speaks. “Do you— need cereal?”

“Oh my gosh,” she says, finally, and shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I just— um.” She takes a deep breath and adjusts the strap on her cross-body purse, and then smiles shyly and says, “Sorry, I just… I love your music?”

Oh—  _ oh _ . Cole thinks his eyes probably boggle out of his head, as he realizes why this random person is looking at him in the grocery store. “Oh,” he breathes, and takes a step back. “Wait— wait, really?”

“Yeah!” The girl’s smile widens, and she fixes her purse strap again. “Sorry, I know you’re, like— trying to shop. I didn’t want to bother you. I just realized it was you, and— yeah. I’m sorry.”

“No— wait, please, uh— don’t be sorry.” His heart might pound out of his chest, and not just because he’s been caught off guard. It’s one thing to see people support your music online or on the radio, all through electronic wires. It’s another thing completely to be  _ recognized _ in the fucking  _ grocery store _ . Whole Foods, of all places. He tries his damndest to assume a socially functional public persona. “You don’t have to apologize at all,” he assures Blue Hair Girl. “That’s— uh, really cool? That you know my music?”

“Are you kidding?” Her grin lingers— so he guesses he isn’t acting awkward enough to scare her off. “Of course I know it.” She’s now holding onto the strap of the purse altogether. Her nails are painted black, like his are. “I first heard ‘Stay Alive’ on the radio around, uh… maybe December? I’ve followed you ever since.” She pauses a second after that, while Cole screams internally, because there is a  _ real person _ standing in front of him in  _ real life _ who  _ recognized _ him because of his music— and then she goes, “Sorry. That sounds weird. But I just— yeah, I love your album.”

“Thank you,” he says, before she can second guess what she’s saying any more. “Thank you so much. I— uh, you have no idea how much it means to me that you said something.”

Blue Hair Girl tucks a blue strand behind her ear. “I have tickets to one of your Providence shows for the tour.”

“No way,” he laughs. This is good practice, he realizes— because only a couple months from now, he’ll be on an actual tour, the first of his life, and he’ll be meeting people on the regular who know him because of his music, and that’s, like— fucking  _ terrifying _ , but he could not be more excited about it, at the same time. Blue Hair Girl, he realizes, is just the beginning. This is how life can be for him, now. “That’s amazing,” he tells her. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“I can’t wait,” she says, and then glances from side to side and grows a little more sheepish. “You, um, definitely don’t have to do this,” she begins, “but would you be okay with taking a picture with me?”

Cole is going to combust, in the middle of the grocery store. He’s about to ask her if she’s serious, but the hesitant smile on her face tells him that she definitely  _ is _ serious. Which is so fucking crazy! Is this real life? He gathers his composure, and nods. “Uh, yes— yeah, definitely. Hold on. I think…” He scans the aisle, just like she did a second ago, and frowns when Ben is nowhere in sight. He did warn him that he was going to the trail mix aisle. Wherever that is. “I think my boyfriend is around here somewhere; he can take it for us,” he tells Blue Hair Girl. “I just, uh— don’t know where he went.”

“You don’t have to get him,” she replies, and lifts her phone out of her bag, turning on its front camera and flashing a thumbs-up. “We can just do a selfie.”

“Oh— right.” He rubs his own forehead. “Yeah. A selfie.” In his idiocy, he thinks he might have forgotten that selfies existed for a second. He’s the certified worst not-famous famous person ever. “Sorry,” he laughs, and hopes, when Blue Hair Girl snaps their picture and he grins awkwardly at the screen, that his face isn’t too red. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah!” She turns to him, and she’s grinning again, no longer looking sheepish. “Thank you so much,” she says, holding her phone to her chest like it’s a prize. “My girlfriend is gonna be  _ so _ jealous.”

Cole laughs again, and still thinks he’s probably red in the face. He wonders if there’s something else he can do for her— and he probably can, right? “Hey, uh— what’s the date of your show?”

“October 28th,” replies Blue Hair Girl, and he catalogues that for future knowledge.

“Cool,” he says, and nods. By then, he’ll have completed his tour of the country; Providence is the last stop. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t intimidated by that thought; it’s a lot of new experience to get himself through before he winds up home again. But Blue Hair Girl makes it a little more real. With every passing day, he’s getting closer to his dream.

Actually, no. He’s already living it. As if he needed proof, a stranger in Whole Foods wants a selfie with him.

“I’ll see you there, then,” he says. She beams, and he adds, “Wait— and what’s your name?”

“Oh—” She slides her phone into her bag again. “It’s Amelia.”

Amelia— he can remember that. Providence, October 28th. He’ll do a shoutout or something. “It was nice to meet you,” he says.

“You, too!” she cries, and laughs a little; her tangible excitement just floors him even more. “I’ll leave you to your shopping,” she adds. “Thank you so much, though. For the picture. And the music.”

He fixes his beanie again. He can’t believe he made it through this interaction in one piece. Does this count as his first meet-and-greet? “You’re welcome.”

Amelia leaves the aisle on the opposite end from where Ben disappeared, and Cole takes a second to himself, to process the fact that that truly, actually did just happen to him.

Holy  _ shit _ . Life is happening. Right in front of his eyes. He has an album out in the real world. He’s going on tour in less than six months. He’s getting  _ recognized  _ in  _ grocery stores _ .

It’s only when Ben reappears— and with him, the cart, newly stocked with two bags of trail mix— that Cole realizes he’s been standing in front of the cereal and hasn’t picked out a type. “How’d it go?” Ben asks, as he walks back down the aisle to meet him. “Find something edible?”

Cole jumps onto the end of the carriage Ben isn’t pushing. “Somebody just recognized me.”

Ben raises an eyebrow, and grins halfway. “What?”

“Somebody— this girl?” He waves a pointing finger around the corner where Amelia left the aisle. “Just recognized me. She asked for a picture. She has tickets to one of the Providence shows.”

“Babe,  _ what _ ?” Ben repeats, and now his smile widens, and he smacks the pushing bar on the carriage with both hands. “No fucking way!” he laughs. “Did you take the picture?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I— she was just here.” He thinks maybe he laughs a little, too. He’s reeling. He cannot fucking believe that just happened to him. “She went that way.”

“ _ Babe _ ! Holy shit!” Ben’s energy right now rivals the way he used to get about making a really good save on the Kiersey hockey team. Or maybe it’s even more than that. Cole is  _ definitely _ blushing now, but with Ben, there’s never any reason to get self-conscious about that. “That’s fucking amazing!”

“I know,” Cole replies, and presses a hand against his own forehead; he can tell his face is hot. “I can’t believe that,” he says. “I feel— _ ha _ .” He barely wants to say it, because he knows it sounds weird and cocky, and you can’t really jump to conclusions about yourself when you put out one successful indie album, but fuck it. There’s a first time for everything. “I feel famous,” he tells Ben.

“Baby,” Ben replies, with the world’s prettiest smile. “I think you might be a little famous.”

Cole cannot believe that this is real life. “Yeah,” he breathes, and for the moment, that’s all he can say. “Uh, maybe a little.”

Ben walks up next to him, slings an arm around his neck, and plants one on his cheek. Cole laughs, and presses his face into Ben’s shoulder, then looks to the menacing wall of healthy cereals. He feels kind of tingly inside, like the energy is everywhere. “I, uh,” he mumbles. “I couldn’t find a cereal.”

“That’s okay,” Ben replies. He squeezes him around the shoulders before he lets go. “We’ll stop on the way home.”

Cole can’t hold back his smile. He won’t admit it to Ben, but even without the unexpected, blue-haired turn of events, that was going to be his plan all along.


	35. thursday afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a never-before-seen Quindo era! Meet Medical Student Quinn, his soon-to-be-husband, and their newly adopted tiny daughter. This is pretty much just domestic drabble; have fun with it.  
> In which: Quinn is an exhausted medical student, but he has his family to keep him going.

_three years after graduation_ | _january_

To say that Quinn is exhausted would be a bit of an understatement.

It's... been a long week, and the week isn't even quite over yet. It isn't like weeks being over makes much of a difference anyways, because with all things considered, there's always something to do no matter what day of the week it is. He's trying so hard to keep good spirits, and he's glad to say that for the most part, he's succeeding on that front. To be sure, he's tired— but being tired is an internal thing, and he refuses to let it affect external parts of his life. He may be very tired, and very busy, but he has responsibilities, and the importance of exactly none of those responsibilities is any less just because of the fact that there's a lot on his plate.

It's just that if Quinn is being honest, medical school is like having tech week every single week. Or perhaps not _every_ week; that's rather dramatic. Many of them certainly feel like it, though. There's always an exam on the horizon— like the one coming up a week from now, and the most recent reason for his stress. On a less large-scale basis, there are daily assignments, grades to keep up, labs galore, the dreaded collaborative project with his fellow students. All of the work is towards a goal, of course, and will be well worth it once he finally makes it to the other side. He's learned quite well that the work is worth the goal, when it comes to his career. It's the whole reason he decided to _go_ to medical school in the first place. It's just that the knowledge that it'll be worth it doesn't take away from the fact that it's hard, busy, difficult work. Any medical student knows this, and he was well warned before he chose to take this path that this was the way it was going to be.

Quinn, though— Quinn has an advantage. Quinn has something that many of his classmates don't have. Because when Quinn goes home at the end of each long, grueling day, he isn't going home to an empty house or apartment. When he goes home, he goes home to the most lovely man— and now, additionally, to the sweetest, most precious little girl. And _that_ , above all else, is what keeps him going.

Tonight, he gets home just after five o'clock. It's a late day, and he knows it, but he was caught in a lab for most of the afternoon, and he texted Sebastián to be sure his arrival time at home would be on his radar. Sebastián goes back to work next month, but for now, he's still on paternity leave, and has been since Violet's very sudden arrival just before the holidays. Quinn asks him if he should pick anything up on the way home, but Sebastián declines; he tells him he's already taken care of everything for dinner. Quinn is grateful beyond words for that— there's always dinner on the table, when he gets home. So many things around the house are taken care of, because Sebastián takes care of them for him. Raising a baby and maintaining a household is a team effort, to be sure, but he's aware— and immensely grateful— for the slack that Sebastián picks up.

So once he's finished on campus, he gets in his car and heads straight toward home. He hits several green lights on his drive, which, without traffic, takes about fifteen or so minutes. Today, he's lucky, and by the time he pulls into the driveway at home, he notes that he's made good time. It's moving toward sunset, but not completely dark yet, and just cool enough for a light jacket and cotton scarf. Quinn has lived in Arizona for three years now— five if you count the summers and Christmas breaks he spent here during the latter half of college— and he believes that slowly, but surely, he's growing used to the temperature cycle here. Really, his scarves are less for practicality and more to complete an outfit nowadays. There's seldom a real need for them. But he wears them anyway, because he wants to.

He parks next to Sebastián's car. The windows of their house are warm-lit, and with the pinkish sky behind it, home has never looked more welcoming. He takes his school bag off of the passenger's seat, slings it over his shoulder, and makes his quick way up the driveway and through the front door.

Walking inside is like getting a hug— home is his safe haven, where even though stresses and school duties may linger over his head, he can find comfort and at least a bit of calm. It smells wonderful inside, like Sebastián's enchiladas, which must be what they're having for dinner. Sebastián himself is not immediately visible, and though her high-chair is by the kitchen table, neither is Violet. He turns on his hearing aids, and speaks quietly, as not to disturb her should she be asleep. "Hello, my loves. I'm home."

There's no response— but he can hear a very faint something in the living room, so he leaves his Oxfords by the door, hangs up his school bag and jacket, and walks across the kitchen. He notes that the oven is on, and through the small window, he can see a tray covered in foil— definitely enchiladas. There's a pot on the stove, which is probably rice. Sebastián is a true wizard in the kitchen; Quinn has been swooning over his food for seven years now. He's extra grateful for it since they graduated, and he grew accustomed to the luxury that is eating it every day.

In the living room, he finds the rest of his small family. The television is on, which is the source of the faint noise; the sound gets a little clearer as he actually enters the room, though he'd never be able to decipher what's being said. It's a cartoon, he notes— one of the ones Violet likes to watch. The play blanket Quinn rush-sewed her in the week following her adoption is spread out on the ground in front of the TV, with a few toys scattered on it— a purple bear he crocheted for her, the plush duck Remy sent in the mail, the doll from Mrs. Hernandez, a teething toy Sebastián bought.

As for the baby herself, though— she's not on the blanket. Instead, she's on the couch, in her papa's arms. Violet looks asleep— with her head pressed into Sebastián's shoulder, she's peaceful and adorable, in a yellow onesie that matches the big cloth bow on her headband. Her hair is getting longer, and curlier, too.

Sebastián is rumpled, in a Kiersey t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts— he's favored his comfortable, casual clothes during paternity leave. His curls are a little ruffled, and he's stretched out on the couch; it's only when Quinn approaches that he lifts his head from bowing it, as if he were almost asleep before, but not quite there. He smiles, and the warm light of the evening catches in his eyes.

Quinn puts a hand to his heart. This, right here— this is everything he'll ever need. "Hello, my dear."

"Hey, baby," Sebastián whispers, and his voice comes out a bit raspy, as if it's the first time he's spoken in awhile. "How was your day?"

Quinn tries to decide how best to answer that question— because truth be told, he had a long and tiring day, but everything seems better standing here in their living room. He settles on, "It's much better right now than it was five minutes ago."

Sebastián laughs, just gently. "That's good to hear," he says. Quinn walks to him, and leans to give him a gentle kiss hello, minding Violet's head on his way down so he won't disturb her. Thank goodness, he doesn't. She sleeps away.

"How long has she been out?" he asks Sebastián, who shrugs and looks briefly down to her.

"Half an hour?" he replies, when he meets Quinn's eyes again. "I was gonna put her down in the crib, but... I was comfy, and then my arm fell asleep."

Now Quinn laughs, with a hand to his mouth. "Oh, honey," he says. "Do you want me to take her?"

Sebastián shakes his head. "I'll wait it out," he murmurs. "Dinner's in the oven," he adds, tilting his head in the direction of the kitchen. "It should be done soon, but it has to cool awhile."

"It smells delicious," Quinn tells him. "Thank you, honey."

"Of course." Sebastián shifts himself a little on the couch, but keeps Violet in the same position in his arm. He looks up to Quinn, and tips his head just a little, like he's beckoning for him. "Can you join us?"

Quinn has a million things he should be doing, most of them for school. His exam next week is going to drive him completely insane. The only thing in the world he wants right now is to join the two of them, on the couch— and yet he knows he shouldn't. He should be getting ahead on his next reading assignment. He should be proactive. It's a Thursday. He still has class tomorrow.

And yet. "I have a bit of reading to do," he tells Sebastián. "But as long as you wouldn't mind my book coming with me, I don't see why not."

Sebastián smiles, from ear to ear. Quinn didn't know it was possible to love him more than he already did, but every day, in that department, he proves himself wrong yet again. It's only more and more since they became parents. "I don't mind," he says.

So Quinn retrieves his textbook from his bag, and brings a pen and notebook with him, to keep track of what he reads. He can't escape the weight of school on his shoulders— almost literally, as this hefty textbook weighs what feels like a million pounds— but he has a home, and an almost-husband, and a beautiful daughter, and the stress has nothing on those things.

He sinks down next to Sebastián on the couch, and presses against his side. Violet, because she's a tiny blessing, continues, just as peacefully, to sleep. Sebastián gives Quinn's hand a good squeeze, and leans to kiss his temple. He says nothing, but he doesn't have to, because the quiet is a comfort all its own. Quinn cracks open his book, and dives into the reading. It's dense, and complicated, and all very necessary in order to attain a good grade on his exam next week. He has a headache. His limbs hurt. He only has a few minutes between now and dinner, and after dinner, he'll have to study more. He is exhausted beyond all compare.

But Quinn can do this, because he's not alone.


	36. empanada coma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. There was no prompt on this ficlet, but on a related note, I want to eat Nando's empanadas more than I can even say. Have some senior year content, featuring Captain Nando and some of his underclassmen. And Quinn, of course.  
> In which: Quinn takes a nap after team dinner.

_senior year_ | _october_

It’s a Thursday night at Beech Street, and Quinn has fallen asleep on the couch.

Nando doesn’t realize, right away, that he’s sleeping. Snuggly Quinn is a quiet creature by nature, because the second his hearing aids are off or out, he’s dead to the world whether waking or sleeping. Quinn has disappeared, after cleaning up the last of the stuff from a big team dinner— Nando’s homemade empanadas, for a little midterms pick-me-up, enough of them to feed a small village or just a D1 hockey team and their two managers. Nando has been cooking and frying since his last class let out much earlier this afternoon, so when he finally gets the last two dwindling freshmen out the door, he’s ready to go find his boyfriend and relax.

“Thanks for dinner, Nando!” Carlos says, once Nando has somehow managed to usher him and Levi out onto the porch. “I gotta tell my mom about your empanada recipe. It’s _elite_.”

Nando chuckles. It’s not that he’s _trying_ to kick them out— team members are always welcome at Beech Street, no matter if they’re freshmen or not— it’s just that it’s approaching eight o’clock, and there’s morning practice tomorrow, and there’s a cute boy on the couch who needs to be snuggled.

“You’re welcome,” he says, to Carlos, who has now thanked him at least four separate times for the food. Nando feels like it’s his responsibility as captain _not_ to have a favorite freshman, but he’d be lying if he said Carlos wasn’t his. Nando hangs in the front door frame, and grins to him and then to Levi, Carlos’ more quiet, introspective fellow freshman. “Have a good night, you guys,” he tells them. “And good luck with that paper, Levi.”

Levi grins now, a small smile. “Thanks,” he says. An English major, Levi has been lamenting about his midterm paper all through team dinner, but keeping good spirits.

“Byeeeee, Nando!” Carlos calls, waving his arm over his head as he and Levi descend the front steps.

Nando waves back. “Night, guys,” he says, again, and waits to close the door until he’s sure Carlos isn’t going to turn around and say something else or ask another question. When they’re well on their way, walking side-by-side down the sidewalk, Nando closes the door, and laughs to himself. Yeah… it’s hard to get rid of the freshmen. Nando doesn’t mind, though. They’re great— both of these guys, plus their two classmates, who left a couple minutes ago. He’s so happy with the team this year.

He locks the front door up for the night, then walks back into the kitchen, where, thanks to his housemates’ and Quinn’s help, you would barely even know there were a bunch of athletes dining not twenty minutes ago. The place is pretty much spotless, and Remy is putting the lid on a tupperware container, securing the five lonely leftover empanadas inside. “Thanks for the help, man,” Nando says, and Remy nods.

“No problem,” he replies, and slides the container into the fridge. With a half-grin, he says, “Those won’t last long in there,” as he closes the fridge door.

Nando shrugs. “That’s what they’re for.”

Remy’s smile widens, and he nods. “Thanks for cooking.”

“I had fun,” he tells him, which is definitely true. He scans the kitchen, then pauses before he asks Remy, “Where did—?”

“He’s on the couch,” Remy replies, tipping his head gently in the living room’s direction.

“Thanks, Rem,” Nando says, only half laughing at the fact that Remy knew what he was going to ask before he even got the chance to ask it. He walks across the hall to the living room area, and that’s how he finds Quinn asleep against the couch’s arm.

He has one of Nando’s sweatshirts on— a bright blue crewneck, with _KIERSEY_ in gold lettering across the front; it’s big on him, and he looks adorable in it, always has. His head is resting in the crook of his elbow, and he has his legs tucked up under himself, and he’s out cold. His hearing aids are out. The TV isn’t even on. By the looks of it, Quinn came in here and immediately slumped into food coma mode.

Nando smiles— looking at him, he has a good view. He can’t blame him for sleeping, at _all_ . Quinn has had a busy, busy week. It’s midterms, so he’s been bogged with schoolwork, but on top of that, he’s been driving himself a little nuts with medical school application stuff, _and_ , somehow, between all the academic things in his life, he’s hard at work sewing costumes for the drama club’s fall play. It goes without saying, with all this in mind, that Quinn deserves the rest— needs it, actually. Nando is just surprised at how fast it happens.

Good for him. Nando settles very gently into the spot next to him, and stretches his arm over the back of the couch to wrap around his shoulders. A few maneuvers later, he’s gotten the sleeping Quinn into his lap, and even in sleep, Quinn sort of naturally snuggles into him.

Nando exhales, and rests his nose in his strawberry hair. _This_. This is the rest he’s been looking forward to.

The snuggling goes on for awhile. The peace and quiet, on the other hand, can only last so long. Remy joins them first— he lumbers in from the kitchen and sits on the other end of the couch, then waves the remote in Nando’s direction with a question in his eyes. “Nan, do you mind if—”

Nando shakes his head. “You can turn it on,” he replies, so Remy does, and scrolls through channels with the volume on low until he stops at a local news station. There’s some reporter doing a segment on some bill or other that the New Hampshire senate is debating. Nando has no idea how Remy is even a little entertained by this, but he does seem to be.

He winds his hands around Quinn’s waist. Quinn doesn’t stir, because he won’t— Nando has long since learned what will and won’t wake him up. He has a feeling this nap might be even deeper than usual, thanks to the week Quinn has had.

Remy watches the news, quiet, for a few minutes. Remy is the kind of friend you can sit with and not talk to, and not feel like something is missing. The relatively mundane atmosphere is only broken when there’s a voice from the entryway, protesting. “You guys are not seriously watching the news right now,” Ben says. “C’mon. I don’t want my good vibes ruined.”

“It’s just local news,” Nando offers, like that’s somehow less vibe-killing.

Remy takes a different approach. “What’s wrong with the news?”

“Everything,” Ben replies. When he comes into Nando’s sight line, it’s on Remy’s side of the couch, and he sits on the arm Remy is leaning against to add, “Everything is wrong with the news.”

“Well, there’s nothing else on,” Remy remarks.

“That’s completely false,” Ben says, “and I know it is, because _Family Feud_ is on right now.” He looks around for a second, like he’s searching for something, then grabs the remote out of Remy’s lap.

“ _Hey_ ,” Remy complains. “I don’t want to watch a crappy game show.”

“I don’t want to watch your face,” Ben says, “so we’re even.”

Remy sticks his tongue out at him, and Nando snorts a little. While Ben starts surfing through the channels, he rests his elbow on the top of Remy’s head. Remy rolls his eyes, then folds his arms and huffs, slouching backwards into the couch.

“There,” Ben says, his voice triumphant, when he lands on the channel he’s looking for. Steve Harvey is interviewing a white lady, whose name tag says Linda. _Linda! Name something you fill with air!_

Linda chatters with her fellow family members for a second, then gives Steve Harvey a big smile. _We’re gonna say a tire, Steve!_

“See?” Ben folds his arms, like he’s mirroring Remy, only instead of rolling his eyes, he just flashes this big smirk. “Quality television.”

“We should go on this show,” Nando remarks, as Linda gets 32 points for her answer, and her family cheers. “Like— frat house feud. Us versus the baseball team.”

Ben laughs, and Remy, too, offers a mild chuckle. “That would be fucking amazing,” Ben says.

Remy looks up to Ben, who has stopped leaning on the top of his head, but is still sitting practically on top of him. “Why do I feel like your family would _actually_ go on this show?”

“Because they would,” Ben replies, without missing a beat. He slides off the arm and onto the actual couch, falling halfway across Remy in the process.

“ _Oof_ ,” Remy cries, and slaps Ben’s shoulder. “You’re too big. Get off.”

“But _Reeeeeem_ ,” Ben whines, hooking his arms around Remy’s neck. “I want to cuddle, though.”

Remy waves him away. “Go cuddle with Nan.”

“Ooh, good idea.” When Ben lifts himself up from his sprawl, there’s another wise-ass grin on his face. His hair is half falling out of its topknot. “Look out, Mini. I’m coming for you.”

“He’s asleep,” Nando replies, lifting his arm away from Quinn’s face to prove it. “I think he went into an empanada coma.”

Ben laughs again. “Well, isn’t that a big fucking mood,” he says, and then tucks himself up next to Remy, and leans against his shoulder. For all his grumbling before, Remy doesn’t protest this time.

Nando slides his hand just under the hem of Quinn’s, or— really, his own sweatshirt— so he can rub Quinn’s waist absently. His skin is smooth and warm— actually, Quinn’s whole body is warm, dead weight right now, and Nando could not be more comfy. Family Feud rolls on on the TV. Remy and Ben have a low-voiced conversation about the show, but the next actual conversation comes from the juniors— who walk in a few minutes later, out of nowhere, arguing over something on Zain’s phone.

“No, you should do that one,” X is saying, as he peers over Zain’s shoulder. “It’s, like— the lighting is good?”

“Yeah, but in the other one, we’re all looking,” Chris says, on Zain’s other side.

“Dude, it’s not my fault you weren’t ready,” X replies, and Chris laughs, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

Zain is studying his phone, as they all sit down on the ground in front of the couch, three in a row. Of all the underclassmen, the juniors are the tightest knit. It helps that they all live here this year, their rooms pretty close together.

“I like this one,” Zain remarks, and Nando can’t really see his phone screen that well, but is pretty sure he’s formatting an Instagram post. He shows it to X and Chris, in turn, who both nod like they’re the committee on Zain’s publicity.

“Z, you posting more thirst traps for your followers?” Ben chirps.

“Actually, no,” X answers for him. “He’s actually posting a picture with his boys for once.”

“Fuck you,” Zain mutters, still tapping on his phone. “I post the boys all the time.”

“Yeah, c’mon, X,” Nando joins in, with a grin. “Don’t you know that Z’s Instagram is a carefully coordinated masterpiece?”

“Respect the art,” Remy adds, and Ben slaps Remy’s knee like he’s just said something insanely funny.

“You’re so hip, Rem,” Ben says. “I’m so proud of you.”

Chris has become mesmerized by _Family Feud_ , but X still looks over Zain’s shoulder for another few seconds before Zain announces, “I’m posting this one.”

“Good choice,” X says, and Nando laughs openly. Zain thinks he’s an influencer, so posting on his Instagram is always Very Serious Business.

With the juniors in the living room, too, the only missing Beech resident is MK, who had some photography thing tonight, and wasn’t at team dinner to begin with. Nando pauses, as they’re all just sitting there, to smile a little. He’s surrounded by friends, with the cutest boy sleeping in his arms. Tonight has been a major success.

They spend the rest of the night in the living room, and the group only starts to break up when Remy announces that he’s going to bed circa nine-thirty. Nando decides, pretty soon after that, to follow suit— or maybe not to go to _sleep_ right away, but at least to bring Quinn up to bed. He says goodnight to the guys, hoists Quinn into his arms, and carries him up the stairs. It’s on the way up that he stirs— just gently, Nando feels him move his head against his shoulder, and then press a random, light kiss to his neck as they go. When he reaches the top of the stairs with him, Quinn lifts his head and smiles. His eyes are hazy, and his hair is messy.

“Bedtime, baby,” Nando tells him— he wants to sign it, but can’t sign with his hands full of boyfriend. Quinn is looking right at him, and nods; he understands. He hides his head in his shoulder again.

They go through the motions together— bedtime at Beech Street is a routine they know well. Side by side in the bathroom, they brush their teeth, and Quinn keeps the sweatshirt on but swaps his slacks for pajama pants. It’s the small things in their routine, things that are second nature, that make this house feel like their home.

For the two of them, and for Ben and Remy, this is the last fall semester of college. Seven months from now, they’ll graduate. And for all the excitement Nando feels, all the daydreaming he’s done about he and Quinn having a place of their own— it would be lying to say he wants that to come any sooner than it’s coming. Because when they have a place of their own, there will be so, so many good things— but there won’t be nights like tonight. Quiet nights with their friends, team dinners and chirpy arguments on the couch. Everyone is so close by right now; that’s what Nando loves about college. All of his friends are in one place, and Quinn is right here with them.

He wants to hold on tight to every night like tonight, because if he doesn’t, he’s worried they’ll pass him by too quickly. And this— this house, this group of friends, this senior year— this is something he’ll never get back, not exactly in this way.

So he counts his blessings, and takes note of how lucky they are. When he falls asleep that night, with Quinn in his arms, he’s thinking about how glad he is that it’s only October.

Every day is a last, this year. So Nando does not want to rush this along.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to [come hang out](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, where I'm posting plenty about these OCs on the daily. My [ask box on tumblr](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/ask) is open, for all the yelling or questioning that your heart desires!


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